Mistaken Mistress

by Margaret Way

  Or could it simply be the seven-year itch? An affair that started brilliantly and could only end badly? Owen was a fine-looking man. He had a full head of dark hair, good strong features, a Celtic nose and fine dark eyes. Sadly he had never deeply loved his wife yet love was written all over him now as he moved to a secluded table for two along the glassed wall. Owen was infatuated with this girl. Totally seduced. A blind man would have felt his deep involvement.

  Lang exhaled a deep troubled breath. How was he going to get out of here without Owen seeing him? God, he couldn’t remember a worse situation. Owen wasn’t only his partner, he was his friend and mentor. He couldn’t bowl right up and take Owen to task. That would be a massive invasion of Owen’s privacy, an invasion Owen, a proud man, wouldn’t take too kindly, even from him. All he could do was wait for Owen to confide in him, yet Owen hadn’t said a word for the past six months. Obviously he was planning something and he didn’t intend telling anyone about it until that plan was finalised.

  Seated at their table, Owen had his back to him, broad shoulders square beneath the jacket of his expensive suit. He was free then to observe the way the young woman’s eyes were focused on Owen as he spoke. Not once did her gaze wander casually around the dining room as most people’s did. It was as though she in her turn was spellbound by him. Once Owen must have said something funny. He heard the sweet peal of her laughter. God, what was going on? For all his suspicions had prepared him, he was shocked to actually see Owen with this girl.

  Now she was touching Owen’s jacketed sleeve. Owen hungrily caught her hand, held it. Where and how had he met her? Don’t do it, Owen, he thought. You’re a married man with a child. She’s much too young for you. Early twenties at the outside. Owen had ordered champagne. The best. He saw the waiter take it from the ice and refill the glasses. It seemed vaguely indecent to watch them like this, but he couldn’t look away. They clinked flutes before they drank. Toasting one another, the girl’s beautiful eyes smiled at Owen over the glass’s transparent rim. Her glance was sparkling, young, tender. She probably made Owen feel like he was twenty-two again. Only he wasn’t twenty-two. He was more than double that age. Dangerous and irresistible yet a beautiful young woman made some men want to be young again. Only the Owen he knew was acting out of character.

  They seemed to have a lot to talk about. He watched Owen catch her hand often. He saw the strength of the grasp.

  Suddenly he felt disgusted. Disgusted with himself for sitting there like a voyeur, and disgusted with Owen for betraying his wife and ultimately his son. He was even more outraged at the girl. She had to know Owen was married. He had to have told her. So deeply involved with each other, wouldn’t she have asked? Or was it possible Owen had lied to her? Told her perhaps he was a widower or divorced. Or was it she simply didn’t care? Owen was a very rich man.

  Their appearance together put quite a blight on his evening. Lang signalled a waiter, asked him if there was a discreet way he could leave the restaurant, his manner suggesting there was someone he preferred not to see on his way to the main entrance. It was easily arranged.

  He paid with his card, waiting for the waiter to return, drumming his fingers on the table.

  One could have thought her hearing was so acute she caught the sound. Either that or the quality of his gaze had somehow alerted her. The acuteness of her sensibilities caught him off guard. Those beautiful luminous eyes looked directly into his. They widened at what they saw there. Her mouth parted on a little gasp as though she had read the condemnation of his thoughts without his saying a word. The colour over her cheekbones deepened. The little smile that illuminated her face had completely disappeared. He saw all this in an instant of stunning clarity though he narrowed his eyes as if the fall of light in the dining room was too bright. He found to his self-contempt he could sympathize with Owen’s blind infatuation with this girl. She was not only beautiful, she had a look of exquisite refinement. Fresh. Innocent. Unflawed. Qualities at variance with her character. He made no attempt to look away, unable in that instant to soften the hostility he knew must emanate from him. All sounds in the dining room appeared to be absorbed by the density of the atmosphere between them. He swore he caught her fragrance. Yet there was no defiance in her expression, no challenge. Instead she looked so vulnerable his gaze might be damaging her.

  And then she looked away. Broke the connection as if the impact was too great. She turned her dark head to stare out into the star-studded night, the city’s glitter reflected in the broad, deep river.

  For a moment he’d worried Owen, so clearly protective of her, would turn around so he could follow her fraught gaze. But Owen, mercifully, was still studying the menu. The waiter returned. Lang rose abruptly, unwilling to admit to himself he had found that brief exchange unnerving. There were some women who haunted a man. She was one of them. He followed the waiter to a rear exit, which took him through the busy steaming kitchens, the chefs hurling instructions to assistants who scurried to oblige. He’d have climbed onto the roof rather than encounter Owen and his beautiful dinner companion.

  As he made his way out into the back alley, he couldn’t help but make comparisons between the girl and Delma. Delma had the style and the particular confidence of a mature woman, but the young face he’d looked into was quite unforgettable.

  He slept badly, sure of two things. Owen was never going to release his hold on this girl and two, there was little if anything he could do about it.

  He was coming out of the shower when the phone rang. Swiftly he grabbed the hotel’s white bathrobe and shouldered into it.

  Owen’s deep dynamic voice greeted him.

  “How’s it going, pal?”

  “I can’t wait to get home.” The simple truth.

  “Sure you love the place.” Owen chuckled, obviously in high good humour. “Listen I know I’ve been asking far too much of you for quite a while now, but there’s a couple of things I need you to do today. I want to take a quick trip to the Gold Coast. A guy there has a motor yacht I want to take a look at. From all accounts it’s pretty fine.”

  “And what’s wrong with the Delma?” he asked, trying to temper the faint sharpening in his tone.

  “Nothing. Nothing. I could put it on the market today and someone would snap it up. This yacht is handmade by Italy’s finest craftsmen. Highest quality materials, all the latest equipment. I’d like you to come along as well—we always look at boats together—but this trip we’re so pushed for time.”

  Of course, he thought dismally. Owen intended taking his girlfriend along. Spend the day exploring the delights of the oceanfront. Why the hell couldn’t the man speak?

  “So what is it you want me to do?” He had little choice but to ask. Owen was the senior partner.

  “You could see Rod Burgess for me,” Owen said. “You can handle the man better than I can anyway, and maybe pay a courtesy call on the old patriarch, Brierly. He still has a stake in a few of our property developments, as you know. Again he’ll be pleased to see you. One aristocrat to the other. My polish is superficial. Yours isn’t.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” he clipped off ironically. “Anyway since when did so-called polish have anything to do with success in business?”

  Owen laughed. “I know, I know, but old man Brierly really liked you. Do it for me, pal? I want you to know the best thing I ever did was take you on as a partner.”

  “And I salute you as my mentor. What time do you expect to be back? Our return flight is booked for 9:00 a.m. Means we have to be at the airport by…”

  “Don’t fuss, don’t fuss,” Owen chortled, hugely happy. “By the way, I have some great news for you.”

  God here it comes. His first reaction was a deep biting anger. Why? When it was all said and done he had no right to interfere in Owen’s life.

  “It’s everything I’ve been seeking,” Owen was saying, his voice thick with emotion. “For all of my life it seems.”

  “Sounds like it’s been mak
ing you very happy?” He tried to keep the sadness out of his tone. Who was he to sit in judgment on Owen? Owen had been almost a father figure to him; yet the muscles in his neck tensed as he waited for Owen to continue.

  “The answer is a great big yes!” Owen’s deep voice boomed down the line. “But I’ll have to defer the telling. It needs time. Lots of time. I’ve wanted to tell you for ages, but the timing hasn’t been quite right. This has altered my life, Lang. I didn’t think it was possible to know such joy. I want to shout about it to the world. I want it proclaimed.”

  “Can’t you tell me some of it now?” he as good as begged.

  “I’d love to, mate, I know you’re the man to fully understand. I love you like a son, which you’re not, thank God. I’ve got plans for you. I know why people respect you like they do.”

  “Hey what’s all this about?” Owen was throwing out question marks galore.

  “Life’s too short not to say what we really feel,” Owen exclaimed, his emotions uncharacteristically showing. “Listen, pal, there’s a knock at the door. I’ll go. I’ve hired a car. See you tonight. We’ll have dinner. I want you to meet someone. Righto, righto!” This was obviously directed to the person at the door. “See ya, Lang,” Owen spoke briskly into the mouthpiece.

  “See you,” Lang repeated. “Go with God.”

  Now why had he said that? It sounded so sombre. Almost final. He sought an answer even as he hung up. Maybe it was a releasing of his own acute tension. Maybe it was because he feared for his friend. A man like Owen, a middle-aged man so much in love, could be badly damaged if things went desperately wrong. He was absolutely certain Owen had suffered emotional trauma in his youth. The poor man could be fooling himself he had found the answer to his life’s happiness. There was Delma. There was Robbie. With a divorce a shattered Delma would move away with Robbie. A child needed his father. He should know.

  Was it so strange Owen was acting the way he was? Beneath the tightly controlled facade Owen was a passionate man. It was just that he was sorry, so sorry. Sorry for all of them.

  Except the girl.

  She was kidding herself if she thought snaring a much older married man, a very rich man, was her right. No one could blame her for falling in love but when the outcome was going to cause so much lasting damage it was time to muster real character.

  His meeting began with Burgess, a very successful tourism entrepreneur whose operations extended from the Queensland Gold Coast with its glorious beaches and luxury resorts, to their part of the world, the tropical north of the state over a thousand miles away. Rod was delighted to see him, and after a while steered the conversation away from business to talk cricket. Rod was mad about the game and he’d heard he’d been a dab hand with the bat in his university days.

  They parted on the most amicable of terms, Rod sending his best regards to Owen. “Tell him from me, his best years are to come!”

  A prophecy?

  He decided to grab a bit of lunch before seeing Sir George Brierly. Owen had some information he’d like to show the old man in his room. He’d borrow Owen’s key from reception as soon as he got back to the hotel. All his nagging worries seemed to be getting the better of him but his working philosophy was to keep going and concentrate on the job ahead. It wasn’t like him to feel morbid. A good strong cup of black coffee would clear his head. The coffee Rod served at his office was pretty darn terrible when he thought about it. There was no excuse, either. The coffee plantations of North Queensland were turning out very fine quality coffee, but he’d felt a little hesitant to point that out to Rod who drank his down with every appearance of pleasure. Obviously Rod was a tea drinker.

  Reception handed over Owen’s key without a murmur. The management knew both of them well. Knew they were close friends and business partners.

  In the lift he used the security key to get himself to the top floor. This was the first time Owen had bothered with a suite. Owen, like himself, usually settled for a deluxe room. After all, they spent precious little time in it. His dark thoughts were returning. Was this Owen’s little love nest when he came to town? Surely not? Owen wouldn’t expose himself or his young love in this way.

  He opened the door, seeing the empty space before him; the suite was commodious, comfortable, stylish, a home away from home for the businessman under pressure. He went to the desk along a wall hung with a large genuine oil painting, a seascape, of considerable merit. The hotel liked to trust its up-market guests. He spotted the folder at once. It contained coloured photographs, designs, architectural drawings still in the planning stage for a challenging new project, some twenty-five spacious luxury villas they intended to build along the Hibiscus coast shoreline. The resort would include a private marina, seafront pool and twenty-four-hour security. Last year they’d won platinum in the Best of the New Millennium Awards. He was riffling through the folder when he heard a sound from the master bedroom beyond. He hesitated, frowning. Was it possible the suite was being serviced? With the large folder in his hand he walked to the corridor calling out, “Hello?”

  Even as he did it, the warning bells rang. He knew in a very few moments he was going to come face to face with the love of Owen’s life.

  Hell and damnation. He wasn’t ready for it.

  She emerged from the bedroom looking disturbed before she even caught sight of him. She’d been dressing. That was clear. She’d probably spent the morning in bed. He took in the silky black masses of waves and curls tumbling to her shoulders, little tendrils still damp from the shower. She wore no shoes on her narrow feet. Up close he saw her eyes were lotus-blue, like her dress. Nor could he stop noticing, like last night, she was trembling. If he were truthful with himself he’d have to admit there was something approaching violence in the emotions that shot through him. He didn’t want it, but he couldn’t stop it. He despised this girl but he knew now he wanted to see her again. The full realisation shocked him.

  “You!”

  The word was a little cry, a reminder of the night before. If possible she was more agitated than he was.

  “I’m sorry.” He knew his voice was curt to cutting. “I didn’t realise anyone was here. Lang Forsyth.” He introduced himself. “I’m Owen’s partner.”

  “Yes.” There was such stillness about her. She might have been a painting. “Owen has told me so much about you.”

  “How fascinating!” He recognised that as acid. “I must go now.” He had to get out of there before he told her what he thought of her. That would be much too much. The end of everything with Owen.

  “Please…” It was an appeal and it stopped him briefly. “You were at the restaurant last night.”

  “I wanted to be private. There’s no reason for you to tell Owen. I had no wish to disturb you.”

  “You looked at me as though you hated me?”

  The luminous gaze momentarily disarmed him. “How could I do that? You’re a total stranger.”

  “Except you do have a reason. Your reaction was so strong.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “What the devil are you doing here in his suite? Half dressed.” He marvelled at the colour and texture of her skin.

  “I’m a kept woman, is that it?” Such control for such a small-boned, small-breasted, willowy creature.

  He knew his eyes were ice-cold. “Forgive me if I can’t be as civil as you’d like. All I can think of is what’s going to happen from now on?”

  “You don’t want me in Owen’s life?”

  He shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  “But I am in it, Mr. Forsyth,” she said with no trace of triumph. “My position has been confirmed. Owen loves me.”

  “Infatuation,” he cut in. “Owen is totally swept away by your beauty.”

  “He’s seen it before.”

  He couldn’t account for that. “What are you talking about? What tricks are you playing?”

  “No tricks,” she said gently. “If you’d allowed me just a little time to justify my actions…”


  He turned decisively to go on his way. “I’m sorry. You’d need all the time in the world.”

  “You’re on dangerous ground, Mr. Forsyth,” she warned from behind him.

  “Don’t you think I don’t know that?” He caught hold of the doorknob. “You’ve propelled yourself into Owen’s life but it’s not my relationship with Owen that disturbs me the most. Or the fact that our relationship might end. It’s Owen himself I’m worried about. Owen and his family.”

  “Such pure motives. How high-minded you are.”

  “While you are not.” He let her see his contempt.

  “I think you’d better go now.”

  How her flush accentuated the whiteness of her skin. “I intend to. From something Owen said to me earlier I think he was planning for us all to meet over dinner. That may not be possible.”

  “I’ll allow Owen to persuade you,” she said quietly. “I have no desire to myself.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  EDEN first laid eyes on her father at her mother’s funeral. She had no idea then who he was or the remarkable fact that he, not Redmond Sinclair, was her natural father. Owen was her mother’s lover over twenty years before when they were both very young.

  Owen—a ruggedly handsome man in his prime—would have stood out anywhere, but it had been the quality of his gaze that had seized and held her attention. Just as Lang Forsyth’s silvery lancing glance had compelled her to look in his direction in the restaurant last night. Now she knew who he was. Owen’s close friend and partner. Owen had portrayed Lang Forsyth as a wonderful guy. Brilliant! A man of great strengths, educated, polished, ambitious, a great mixer, the sort of man you’d want on your side. Not the man you’d ever need as an enemy, Eden has since concluded.

  She put up her hands to cover the flush of helpless anger that rose to her cheeks as she relived that brief incident which had so affected her. Of course he harboured the belief she was Owen’s mistress. How ironic! She still saw his frozen gaze. Diamond-hard. Heard the vibrant voice, uncompromising, deliberately stripped of all softness. She comforted herself—just barely, he had upset her so much—he would soon know the truth. Not that she would ever forgive him his contempt, understandable or not. She had suffered enough anguish of recent times, but she had loved her mother dearly. It hadn’t been easy to accept Owen’s claim he had fathered her and not Redmond Sinclair, the man she called “Father.” They had never been close or so comfortable for her to call him “Dad.” Redmond Sinclair was a man who never showed emotion. Not even at her mother’s funeral when every other thing about him spelled grief and desolation.