Mistress for a Night

by Diana Hamilton

  With a smothered cry of anguish she pressed the palms of her small hands against his shoulders and pushed him away, frantically scrabbling to cover herself.

  ‘Just leave me alone!’ she commanded tightly, dragging the edges of her shirt together. ‘I didn’t ask you to come here. I don’t want you here.’

  She saw the flare of his nostrils, the white line of what was probably temper appear around his mouth, and it incensed her. He looked like a man who had been deprived of something he believed he had a right to take!

  Pushing the shirt into the waistband of her hastily pulled-up trousers, her hands shaking with rage, shoving her feet into the sturdy slip-ons she’d discarded so she could feel the soft coolness of the moss beneath her feet, she stated rigidly, ‘Don’t ever try to touch me again. You caught me when my guard was down—what’s your excuse?’

  Jason got slowly to his feet, dragging a long-fingered hand over his tight jawline as he felt the savage ache of frustrated need ebb as quickly as it had flowed, the shock of her explosive rejection suddenly clearing his head. He couldn’t excuse what had happened between them because he sure as hell couldn’t understand it.

  ‘I didn’t think I needed one. It’s not the first time you’ve thrown yourself at me, remember? You seem to make a habit of it,’ he added drily. Tousled hair, her golden eyes ablaze with anger, she looked magnificent, wild and incredibly sexy.

  He fought back the hot, resurgent stab of need the only way he knew how, employing the first weapon to come to hand, using the thought that had lurked at the back of his mind since his stepfather’s death. ‘I can’t imagine you leading Harold on, then giving him a similar slap in the face. Because as sure as God made little green apples he wouldn’t have left his entire fortune to you if you had.’

  The utter hatefulness of his taunt was a pain that had no ending. It would have had her on her knees, sobbing her heart out, if she’d let it, the pain of knowing he had always believed what Harold had said all those years ago, his belief reinforced by the contents of that will.

  Retaining the pain within her rigidly held body, not letting him guess at his power to hurt her, she raised one finely arched brow in his direction. ‘How very astute you’ve become, Jason. I guess it must come with the job.’ And she swept past him, heading for the path between the trees. She wasn’t going to argue with him. He could think what he damned well liked.

  ‘I shan’t want anything, Blossom. I’ve got a raging headache, so I’ll turn in and have an early night.’

  It wasn’t a lie. Her head felt as if it were about to split in two. But nothing short of her immediate demise would obliterate the housekeeper’s notion of what was right and what was wrong.

  ‘You can do no such thing, Miss Georgie! Whatever would Mr Jason think? His first night here, too!’

  Blossom had been preparing peppered shrimps for the supper Georgia had no intention of sharing with Jason, and now she wiped her hands on her huge white coverall and plonked them on her hips, repeating, ‘Whatever would he think of your manners?’

  Georgia couldn’t care less. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand, if you explain it to him nicely.’ She crossed to the fridge and poured herself a glass of juice. The sun had set in a blaze of gold and crimson, dropping swiftly through the dark blue sky. Now she could see fireflies dancing giddily through the wide uncurtained kitchen windows.

  She had no idea if Jason had returned to the bungalow or been caught in the quickness of the Caribbean nightfall. And didn’t want to know.

  Disregarding Blossom’s objections, she went to her room and closed the door firmly behind her. She was fond of the older woman, had come to terms with her idiosyncrasies during the weeks she’d spent here all those years ago, and remembered her with affection. But the housekeeper was going to have to learn that Little Miss Georgie had grown up, developed a mind of her own!

  She had even, before Jason had appeared and ruined the tranquillity, decided to keep the island, to visit as often as she could, offer it as a holiday opportunity for her friends and colleagues. Blossom and Elijah would love having people to look after.

  But Jason’s unexpected arrival had tainted the place, spoiled everything. He was the serpent in this paradise. She didn’t think she would ever want to set foot on the island again.

  The sleep she craved eluded her. When the illuminated dial of the bedside clock showed two a.m. she gave up, pulled on a short silky robe and padded out of the room.

  At the far end of the wide, marble-floored corridor she took a deep breath to steady herself, and opened the door to the master suite. At least Blossom would applaud the fact that she’d at last psyched herself up to sort through the things Vivienne had left behind when she’d fled the island all those years ago.

  Wide awake and fully alert, Jason heard doors open and close. So Georgia couldn’t sleep, either. Were the memories of what had happened between them earlier keeping her awake, too?

  He would have liked to blame his sleepless state on the peppered prawns, the pumpkin pie and homemade ice-cream Blossom had served him. But in all honesty couldn’t.

  Not wanting to eat a thing, he’d forced himself to for the housekeeper’s sake. She’d been miffed enough about Georgia’s refusal of supper.

  ‘Miss Georgie says sorry, but she’s got herself a big headache. She’s gone to bed to sleep it off. She don’t heed what I say—goes out in the sun without her hat—I worry my head about her.’

  ‘Don’t.’ He’d eyed the fancily laid table, the great quantities of rich food with a desperation he’d been doing his best to hide. ‘Miss Georgie’s all grown up now; she can look after herself.’

  And wasn’t that the truth! She’d latched on to Harold’s weakness for pretty young things and feathered her nest very nicely, thank you! And, this afternoon, had had no qualms about as good as admitting it!

  It sickened him to his soul. He wanted to walk away from the hard-nosed, sophisticated little madam she’d become and forget she’d ever existed.

  But he couldn’t. Not until she’d fully explained what had happened to their baby. Not knowing was his private demon. A demon that wouldn’t let him rest.

  He’d fouled up this afternoon. His intention had been to talk, to begin to sort out their unfinished business, and he’d ended up touching her, wanting her with a force that had blown his mind.

  It wouldn’t happen again. Forewarned of the crazy effect she could have on him, he’d make absolutely certain it didn’t!

  Swinging his legs out of bed, he strode to the en suite bathroom to cover his naked body with the towelling robe that was hanging on the back of the door, and let himself out into the corridor.

  Blossom and Elijah’s quarters were in the annexe, so Georgia had to be the nocturnal wanderer. He’d track her down and insist they had the talk that was overdue by seven years.

  At the end of the corridor a strip of light showed beneath the master suite door. He walked towards it. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest. He ignored it and pushed open the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A SINGLE lamp illuminated the top of the delicate writing desk she was sitting at. Jason spared a single, impatient glance at the rest of the dimly lit master bedroom, noted the jewel colours of the clothes that had been neatly folded and stacked on the ice-blue satin bedspread, but his eyes were immediately drawn back again to the scarlet-robed figure immobile in the pool of light.

  She had scooped her hair up on top of her head, revealing her long, elegant neck, and the droop of her slender shoulders as her fingers smoothed the surface of the handwritten sheet of paper in front of her gave her an almost childlike vulnerability that jerked at his heartstrings.

  Coupled with the in-your-face sensuality of the body so carelessly covered by a slick of scarlet silk, it was a combination that threatened to destroy his intention to keep the hoped-for conclusion of business between them civilised and cool.

  A frown drew his brow down above his narrowed eyes. She couldn’
t have failed to hear him come into the room, and yet she didn’t turn to face him, didn’t move a muscle apart from the slow slide of her fingers over the sheet of paper.

  ‘Georgia! Can we talk?’ He regretted the involuntary harshness of his voice, regretted it more when, with every appearance of deep reluctance, she turned to him and he saw her face. It was wet with tears, and the brilliance of her eyes was dulled by a deep inner anguish that made his breath catch in his throat.

  The desire to go to her, to hold her, comfort her, was strong enough to make him shake. He denied the impulse firmly. Getting close to her was dangerous. He didn’t need reminding of the mindless mistake he’d made earlier in the day.

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of the robe he was wearing and said as impartially as he could, ‘Something’s obviously troubling you. Want to talk about it? Or wouldn’t that help?’

  Georgia swallowed painfully; she was beyond coherent speech. If she tried to get one word out past the hot, aching constriction in her throat she would break down in sobs and humiliate herself. She’d done enough of that this afternoon.

  Besides, the letter she’d discovered in the desk drawer and had only just finished reading when he’d walked in had knocked the stuffing clean out of her. For the moment she had nothing to fight him with.

  Wordlessly, she held out the paper, and he took it, distancing himself, though, going to the other side of the room and leaning against the ornately carved footboard of the bed. The frown line between his eyes deepened as he read. Though whether that was down to the dimness of the light on that side of the room or the contents of the letter, she didn’t know.

  The contents. Already the words were branded on her brain.

  My dear Georgia,

  I’m writing because I haven’t the courage to phone and beg for a face-to-face meeting. I have so much to apologise for. For treating you shamefully since your birth, for not being able to love you as a mother should. For refusing to have you back at Lytham. The list goes on—

  Is it too much to ask that we meet and try to build bridges? I know I don’t have the right to ask anything of you. But it would mean so much to me. And perhaps mean something to you.

  There was no more. Vivienne hadn’t finished writing the letter before something had made her leave Blue Rock so precipitately. And she had been killed in her car before she’d had time to write again.

  Georgia watched Jason walk slowly back to her side, his tall, lean body dominating her, the intense sexual awareness making her heart turn over.

  She didn’t want it, didn’t need it. Couldn’t cope with the basic instinct that had been with her since her teens. The only way she could handle it was by making him her enemy, fighting him.

  She’d stopped fighting him this afternoon, and just look at what had happened!

  Since reading the unfinished letter the fight had gone out of her, so perhaps he’d do the decent thing and leave her to mourn the loss of the reconciliation her mother had wanted, lost because she’d run out of time.

  But he didn’t, simply lowered her defences to zero when he said compassionately, his dark, soft voice sending shivers down the length of her spine, ‘At least you have the comfort of knowing that your mother wanted to make amends.’

  She dipped her head, afraid of baring raw emotion in front of him, but he tilted her head up with one finger, just under her chin, and she was forced to witness the smoky compassion in his eyes as he told her, ‘I knew, from the moment she came into Harold’s life, that she had little time for you. It used to cut me up, seeing your insecurities. I put her behaviour down to a rather selfish woman’s absorption in her new marriage, a new and wealthy lifestyle. But there was obviously more. It went way back to your birth. Can you tell me more? I’m not prying, but it might help to lay a few ghosts.’

  In this gentler, more receptive mood he was doubly dangerous. The basic instinct to love this man, the blistering sexual chemistry between them, the tenderness… Right at this moment she was too weakened to resist.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded, and slid the letter back into the drawer. She would take it with her when she went. Not the designer clothes her mother had adored, nor the jewellery she’d left behind. Just the letter. Because there, at last, was her means of forgiving the past.

  ‘Not here.’ He stepped back a pace as she stood up, careful not to touch her, but his eyes were kind.

  She mentally excused her meek compliance. Perhaps that was what she needed right now. Perhaps kindness from the man who had betrayed her, turned his back on her when she’d so badly needed him, would help her recover from the shock of finding that letter.

  She needed to know that he was capable of having consideration for her, benevolent feelings. It would help her to know that the love of her young life hadn’t been wasted on a heart that was completely black, just as she was beginning to understand that her mother hadn’t meant it, not deep down, when she’d said she never wanted to see her daughter again.

  Passing the back of her hand over her still aching forehead, she followed him from the room, and he told her, ‘We could both use something to relax us, I guess. Hot milk and whisky should do the trick.’ He could do with a stiffener, but her need looked greater than his. The dark rings around her eyes, the tight cast of her features, made her look brittle—as if, carelessly handled, she could break into a million pieces.

  He pushed open the kitchen door and leaned in to flick on the lights, waiting for her to precede him. Almost as though, Georgia thought, he wanted her under his eye, to make sure she didn’t run and hide.

  Entering the room ahead of him, she made for the cane two-seater against the far wall, sinking down on to the squashy cushions where Blossom took her ‘little breathers’.

  Her adrenalin supplies had all dried up, she decided as she watched him pour milk into the pan he’d selected, then slosh what looked like a suspiciously huge amount of spirit into two earthenware mugs. No sign of the primitive urge to flee or fight.

  His back to her, he remarked, ‘You’ve only visited the island once before, as I recall. Eighteen months or so after Vivienne married Harold.’

  The unfinished business between them would have to wait; he wanted to get her talking about her mother because, whether she knew it or not, she needed to. His gut instinct to care for her didn’t surprise him. It had always been there, ever since their first meeting. In spite of everything, the need to protect her surfaced naturally now, as if it had been programmed into him.

  He handed her the mug of hot, whisky-laced milk and perched at the end of Blossom’s sofa, his own mug cradled in his hands, knowing he had to be careful not to appear to pressure her.

  Georgia nodded, taking a tentative sip of the hot drink. The combination had sounded pretty unpalatable to her, but the hot creamy milk took the fire out of the spirit and went down easily. Leaning back against the cushions, she told him, ‘After that first time, they never brought me back. As you know, I usually spent the long summer holidays between Sue and her family and Lytham. But Mother loved this place. They came often.’

  ‘What did you do? Blot your copybook?’ he asked lightly. There was a speck of creamy milk on her upper lip. The tip of her tongue peeped out to capture it. He looked away quickly, tightening his mouth as desire stabbed with wicked ferocity inside him, and heard her answer, sounding much more relaxed now.

  ‘I don’t think so. They weren’t around enough to get fed up with me. Harold used to hire a motor launch so they could visit San Antonio whenever they wanted, without having to rely on Elijah. I stayed here—swimming, exploring the island, going fishing with Elijah and being fussed over or bossed around by Blossom. I had a whale of a time.’

  The only thing she’d longed for was for Jason to put in an appearance; she’d missed not seeing him once during the five weeks she’d spent here.

  She drained the last drop from her mug. Better not to think of that old infatuation. She could think of it and deride herself for it when he was bac
k to being her enemy again. ‘Mother much preferred San Antonio—it has great shops, apparently, a couple of superb restaurants and plenty of sophisticated nightlife.’

  I just bet she did, Jason thought acidly. Vivienne had loved the high life, going places where she could be seen in all that expensive designer gear. Blue Rock would have simply been a convenient base from which to visit the exclusive playground of the larger island, where the ordinary residents didn’t go because no way could they have afforded the mile-high prices.

  But he held his tongue, because now he had Georgia in a relaxed mood he didn’t want to ruin it. Not yet, anyway. Not until he found the right moment to bring up the subject of the abortion.

  ‘You say “apparently”. Didn’t you go there?’

  She shook her head and a few soft tendrils dropped from the loose knot on top of her head to frame her face. ‘Only passing through, from the airstrip to the quayside.’

  That figured. Vivienne wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with the awkward, painfully shy sixteen-year-old Georgia would have been at that time. It wouldn’t have suited the image she’d created for herself.

  Yet there was more to it than that. The letter had revealed that Vivienne had never really loved her daughter. He took their empty mugs and rinsed them at the stainless steel double sink, carefully keeping his back to her, his tone as casual as he could make it as he asked, ‘Were the two of you ever close?’

  Vaguely, she wondered whether to give him the short answer, and then decided against it. She had always found him easy to talk to. And, in the light of her mother’s final wish to get closer to her at last, she needed to get their relationship in perspective, see it from all angles.

  ‘Never. She resented me. But you have to understand why,’ she told him thoughtfully, noting the dark frown as he turned back to face her. ‘I don’t know what she told Harold—we never shared confidences—but she got pregnant with me not long after she left school. She and my father—and don’t ask, because she never even told me his name—were engaged, going to be married. But he did a runner when he found out I was on the way. Whether he was frightened off because he couldn’t face the idea of fatherhood, or whether the promise of marriage had been a ploy to get her in bed, who can tell?’