Constantinou's Mistress

by Cathy Williams

  ‘On my own.’

  ‘I thought women never went to restaurants on their own. Gina would never have dreamt of doing that.’ He gave a short, hard laugh. Oh, no, Gina would never have done that, not in a month of Sundays. She had never cared for her own company. She had always needed an audience, preferably of the male variety, someone for whom she could toss her hair and flash her eyes, someone to lean across to, making sure that her bountiful breasts hinted at pleasures only she could dispense.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t bother me,’ Lucy said with an edge of defensiveness in her voice. ‘I know you probably think that’s very sad, a woman of twenty-three eating in a restaurant on her own on a Friday night, but I’ve never been the sort who needs constant companionship.’ It occurred to her that the mere fact that she felt compelled to defend herself made her sound sad. She didn’t sound at all like the liberated young thing she wanted to show him that she was.

  ‘I don’t think it is sad at all.’

  ‘Anyway, I should have gone back home after that but I fancied a drive. I don’t often get the chance. I take the tube in to work and tonight I thought I’d drive and I ended up driving here. At the time it seemed a good idea to come in and finish off some work. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wasn’t very tired.’

  ‘I am very glad you weren’t.’ He released her wrist but only to trail one long finger along her arm.

  What was going on? Nick didn’t know. He looked at her and his body started to react. A tense silence closed around them and he felt as though time had carried them away to a little world where reality was something that no longer existed.

  All that existed were his confused thoughts and this woman sitting alongside him on a sofa in his office. And he wanted her there, a warm, living, breathing person.

  She had dressed in suitably sober clothing for the funeral. A dark skirt, a deep-burgundy long-sleeved top. Her jacket and coat she had discarded. He had noticed her at the funeral and the black coat had swathed her and made her look like a fragile waif with those huge brown eyes and small, delicate face. Small, delicate face with a perfectly shaped mouth, one he now found himself touching with the tips of his fingers.

  Lucy gripped his fingers with one shaky hand and lowered them to her lap. She had to get out of there and very quickly. ‘Look, I know you’ve just been through the most awful experience you may ever have to go through in your life, but…what you need is sleep, Nick.’

  ‘No, that is not what I need,’ he murmured back, drowsily running his eyes over her face and then along her body. She always dressed for work smartly, in suits with crisp shirts underneath boxy jackets. Never before had he felt himself yearning to touch what was so purposefully concealed, but then, he thought to himself, he had always been a married man. Married to the notion of fidelity, too damned stubborn and proud to admit failure even when their ship had been sinking and he’d been able to feel his feet wavering unsteadily on their collapsing foundations.

  Now, though…the burgundy top which clung to Lucy’s small frame compelled him to look at the swell of her breasts, and he could see by the way she was breathing that what he was doing was turning her on. He was sure of it. She dropped his hand and clasped her arms across her chest. Didn’t she know that that gesture only aroused his imagination, made him want to prise those arms away and touch what she was protecting?

  Lord, he must be going mad!

  He passed his hand over his brow and then raked his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Have you ever thought about getting married?’ he asked.

  Lucy, caught unawares, stared at him for a few silent seconds. ‘Of course. Don’t all women? Dream of settling down and living happily ever after with Mr Right?’ Stop talking, she told herself fiercely. Just get a grip and leave! But her feet were blocks of lead.

  ‘Happily ever after?’ His laugh was brutally cynical. ‘Let me know what that feels like if you ever find it.’

  He sure as hell hadn’t. He had barely found the happy bit, never mind the ever after.

  Lucy, watching the harsh twist of his mouth, felt a rush of sympathy for the man lying on the sofa. The ruthlessly self-assured boss she had spent months working for, the man who could walk into any crowded room and reduce the occupants to silence simply by his sheer presence, was strangely and touchingly defenceless now.

  His cynicism was so understandable. For him, there would be no fairy-tale ending to his fairy-tale marriage.

  Impulsively, Lucy reached out and took one of his big hands in hers.

  He pushed himself further up the sofa so that he was now semi-sitting, his head resting against the wood-panelled wall behind him.

  ‘God, I feel as though I’ve run a marathon uphill all the way.’

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ she agreed. ‘You look it.’ Then she did the unthinkable, did it without even stopping to think. She reached out and traced her finger across one of his hard cheekbones.

  Nothing, to Nick, had ever felt sweeter. Could that finger taste as sweet as it had felt just then? He softly held it and closed his eyes, circling it with his lips. Then he was kissing all her fingertips, his eyes still closed. The humming that had been going on in his head ever since he had started on the whisky hours earlier had disappeared, replaced by a different sort of noise. The roll of thunder.

  He pulled her towards him, holding his hand behind the nape of her neck, and blindly sought her mouth. His lips met hers with a heat that drove the breath out of his throat and he framed her face with both his hands, pulling her towards him.

  ‘Nick…you don’t need this…’ The utterance made her see clearly what she didn’t want to see. That, although he might not need it, she did. Against every thread of ingrained common sense, the utter foolishness of the feelings she had been harbouring towards him for months pushed their way through to seize control of her mind.

  ‘I need…’ What did he need? Solace? Forgetfulness? Another chance to live the past two years all over again without repeating the mistakes that had hardened his soul? ‘I need comfort,’ he heard himself say, and this time when their mouths met it was with gentleness. He ran his tongue over her lips and then inside, feeling the mingle of moisture that tasted of honey.

  This is madness, Lucy thought. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t even thinking. He said he wanted comfort and comfort from any source would do the trick—and not even comfort of the kind her body was compelling her to give him.

  ‘You need to get some sleep,’ she muttered into his mouth. ‘Why don’t you let me drop…drop you home…?’

  Nick didn’t answer. He pulled her until she was half lying on him and ran his fingers through her short hair.

  ‘Did you ever have long hair?’ he murmured, his eyes half-closed. ‘I can’t imagine you with long hair somehow.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Short hair suits you.’ His hand slipped beneath the stretchy top and her breath caught in her throat. She made an unsteady effort to push herself away but every nerve in her body was burning with a wild, suffocating need. It was as if her feelings had been locked away in a bottle and now the lid had been taken off and every pent-up drop of forbidden yearning was sweeping out in a frenzy of abandonment.

  ‘Like a gazelle,’ he said huskily, bringing his hand up until it covered one of her small, perfectly formed breasts.

  Lucy gave a little squeak of shock and he pushed his fingers into the lacy bra so that he could feel the sensitive bud of a nipple.

  ‘No, we can’t do this…’

  ‘I need you, Lucy, to make me warm…’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Let me see you.’

  ‘Nick…’

  ‘Take off the jumper. Let me see you.’

  Her senses were swimming in confusion but she couldn’t tear her fixated eyes away from his face. With a soft shudder of horrified compulsion that was mingled with searing compassion, she felt herself slowly work the jumper up and over her
head until she was leaning over him with only her bra on, nothing to hide the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her erratic breathing matched his and with a groan he pulled down the straps of her bra. Small, dainty breasts pointed up at him with their big, rosy peaks. Breasts that were sweetly aroused. He could tell by the tight, hard bud crowning the centre of the perfectly defined pink discs. Her mouth was half-parted in fascination and the urge to lose himself in the slim, flawless body nervously displaying itself for his greedy gaze was overpowering.

  He dipped his head and bent forward and began to suckle at the nipple, only vaguely aware of her own hiss of indrawn breath and the satisfied arching of her body. Then her hands curled into his hair and she cupped his face while he continued to suck the extended tip of her nipple, only breaking off to smother the breast with wet kisses before moving on to explore the splendid feast of the other.

  His erection was almost painful, and as he continued to give her breast his undivided attention he guided her hand to his trousers, keeping it there while he fumbled with his zipper.

  This couldn’t be happening! Watching him, feeling him, as he nuzzled against her breasts, nipped and sucked at her nipples, was mind-blowing enough, but as her hands closed snugly around his swollen shaft she felt a ripple of uncontrollable need rush through her.

  She pulled back, but only so that she could stand up and wriggle feverishly out of her cloying skirt and out of the tights and underwear that she barely had the patience to rid herself of.

  She needed to feel his hard body alongside hers on the sofa but he was not having it, not yet. He cupped the bare flesh of her bottom with his hands and pulled her towards him so that he could blow softly on the soft, fine triangle of hair that led down to the crease of her closed thighs.

  Lucy released a shuddering moan and flung her head back, parting her legs as he began to explore her most intimate region, flicking into folds of her womanhood, turning her into a raging flame.

  She gripped the back of his head with unsteady hands and rotated her hips slightly against him. When she was on the brink of exploding he pulled back and yanked her down on top of him. She felt the thrust of him against her own throbbing arousal and the smooth fabric of his trousers against her legs.

  There was something headily sensual about the fact that she was totally naked while he still had on his shirt, rumpled though it was, and his trousers. She felt a thrilling, unexpected surge of power and climbed onto him, eyes open wide so that she could see the sheer beauty of his face while she gyrated rhythmically against him.

  With a sexual command she’d never known she possessed, she undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it open so that she could feast her hungry eyes on his muscle-packed chest with its small, flat brown nipples, perfect targets for stroking thumbs.

  He looked at her with blazing desire and rested his big hands on her hips, orchestrating her movements and watching the bounce of her small breasts hungrily.

  Lord, if he could he would stretch this moment out like a piece of elastic, but he couldn’t. Raw, animal passion was surging through him like a potent drug and as she moved faster on him he felt the first ripples of his climax, then he couldn’t contain himself any longer. His massive body responded to her in the only way possible just as she stiffened in her own shuddering orgasm.

  Nick pulled her down to him, enjoying the feel of her warm, spent body.

  He must have been more damned frustrated than he had ever imagined, because making love had never felt better. Even now, the thought of those breasts squashed against his chest was enough to induce thoughts of making love to her again and again. He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes. Sleep was beginning to descend on him. Sweet, irresistible sleep. And he could sleep now because he no longer had that wretched anger burning inside of him.

  ‘I can’t believe…my God, Nick…how could this have happened?’ The full horror of the situation began to dawn on her and reality was like a bucket of freezing water. She pushed herself up and stared down at him, but not for long. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face. And she was glad that he was not looking at her either, his eyes lightly closed. Probably, she thought with another wave of bitter self-recrimination, working out in his head how he could sack her the following Monday without flaunting any obvious company guidelines.

  She turned her back on him to dress, her movements jerky, and carried on talking, trying to find some justification for her behaviour.

  ‘I realise this makes our situation very difficult,’ she finished, finally getting up the courage to turn around now that she was fully dressed, although under the severe clothing she was all too mortifyingly aware of her body, which was still burning from his caresses. His prone body was swathed in shadow and she was just glad that he was giving her the opportunity to speak. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am…’ There was a sob in her voice and she blinked very quickly to clear her head. ‘Please don’t think I blame you in any way…I don’t…I…I blame myself, and I’ll understand perfectly if you want me to hand in my resignation on Monday…’

  She took a couple of tentative steps closer towards him.

  ‘Nick…?’ When he didn’t answer she moved towards the sofa and stared down at his relaxed body, one arm slung carelessly over the side of the sofa, the other resting lightly on his chest.

  Asleep. Fast asleep.

  She remained where she was for a few seconds, wondering whether her need to talk was greater than his need to sleep. After a few more seconds of indecision she sighed softly and put on her coat and scarf, closing the door quietly behind her.

  They had both acted on crazy impulse, she thought shakily, except he had an excuse and she had none. It had been an agonising reversal of roles. Wasn’t it usually the man who took advantage of the inebriated woman? When he woke up, would he see her as someone who had taken advantage of his temporary defencelessness? It was a sickening, horrifying thought.

  If she remained working for him, she at least had learnt her lesson. She would prove to him that her moment of weakness had been a passing madness. She had seen for herself the depth of his raging grief that had allowed him to use her as therapy and she had allowed herself to be used as therapy. She could only now regain her self-respect by ensuring that it never happened again. Ever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NICK stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, hands thrust aggressively into his pockets, and stared, scowling, at the grimy London buildings outside.

  His entire weekend had been spent reassuring departing relatives that he was fine, that, yes, getting back to work immediately was the right thing for him to do, that, no, he didn’t need to get away. On top of that he had had to cope with what had happened on the Friday night.

  He muttered an oath to himself and dragged himself away from the unappealing view outside to sit at his desk.

  Of course he would have to face Lucy but what he was going to say was another matter. He could scarcely believe what had happened. The recollection had a dream-like quality about it, but, inebriated though he had been, he unfortunately had not been inebriated enough to consign to blissful oblivion the glaring fact that he had lost control. With his secretary. And, worse, the thought nagged away at the back of his mind that somehow she had been forced into doing something she would have found abhorrent.

  He gazed abstractedly at his computer terminal and waited.

  What, he wondered grimly, had he said to her? Anything? Had he jumped on her? The thought made him slam his fist on his desk in a gesture of frustrated rage that was directed entirely at himself. He almost suspected that she would not turn up at all, and if she failed to do so then he could hardly blame her.

  But she did.

  Even the prospect of facing him on the Monday morning, terrifying though it was, did not deter her from getting up at the usual time, getting dressed in her usual manner, having what passed for her breakfast, a snatched cup of coffee and a slice of toast.

  Lucy o
nly faltered when she was finally standing in front of the glasshouse office building, then she took a deep breath and propelled herself through the revolving door.

  She was aware of several of her colleagues greeting her, and she heard herself greeting them in return, wondering feverishly if they could spot anything different about her.

  The second floor of the building was designated to the directors of the company. Lucy strode along and when she reached the door to her own office she glanced desperately towards the lift and wondered what it would feel like to just run away.

  Maybe he wouldn’t be there, she thought to herself, as her nervous apprehension reached stomach-churning levels. Maybe he would have no memory of what had taken place. Temporary amnesia through excessive alcohol. That sort of thing happened quite frequently; she was sure of it.

  She pushed open her door, walked in and saw him, sitting in his leather chair, every inch the forbidding, ruthlessly self-assured boss she was accustomed to. He had been staring at his computer but his eyes met hers the minute she walked through the door and Lucy smiled a tentative greeting.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked, removing her coat and hanging it on the coat stand by the door. When he didn’t answer she went to stand by the interconnecting door to his office, hovering indecisively and trying very hard to maintain an air of efficient normality.

  ‘I think we need to have a little chat, don’t you?’

  So he had remembered. Had she really expected otherwise?

  ‘Do we?’ Lucy asked in a voice that bordered on the pleading. ‘There’s so much to do on a Monday morning. Shouldn’t I be getting on with work?’ Her mouth dried up as his black eyes swept over her.

  ‘Come in and shut the door behind you. I’ve told Christina to make sure that no calls come through until advised.’ He could see the reluctance on her face, could sense her desperate longing for him to say nothing of what had taken place, and another spasm of self-disgust twisted in his gut.

  Of all the people in the world, he’d had to get drunk and fall on the one who was least able to handle it. Lucy had never once shown any inclination that she was attracted to him. She was the most private woman he had ever known. Even when he had been married, and very faithfully married despite the provocation, he had been a magnet for other women, including those with husbands tucked safely at their sides. Distasteful though the thought was, he would have preferred to direct his unsteady feet towards the nearest bar and pick up a woman. Anyone other than the girl standing in front of him with her huge, dismayed eyes which she was trying so hard to conceal.