Mistress for a Night

by Diana Hamilton

  Her face set, she shot to her feet and swung round to stalk away, but a steel-fingered hand fastened around her ankle, shackling her.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘When I have an answer.’

  Threat or promise, she was telling him nothing. He would have learned exactly what had happened from Vivienne, shrugged those impressive shoulders and got on with his life. She wasn’t going to put herself through the agony of telling him about the worst few hours of her life, the following long period of grief and depression, just to satisfy his twisted curiosity.

  She tried to jerk her foot away, but his grip simply tightened. His strength was formidable. It was a pity his character didn’t match it!

  ‘Have it your way.’ Her mouth mutinous, she shuffled down in the sand, wondering if she could make a dash for it. The lean, tanned fingers slid away, releasing her. She decided she wouldn’t do anything so undignified. He could make her sit here for ever, but he couldn’t make her speak.

  But her stubborn resolution was knocked sideways when he said bitterly, ‘Let me put it another way. Why did you have an abortion? I was going to marry you, take care of you both.’

  ‘I had what?’ The words were shocked out of her. Her eyes flew to his harsh face, her brows knitting together as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said.

  ‘You heard.’ Impatience turned his eyes black. ‘Just tell me why. I need to understand why you did it. When I do, I’ll get out of your life and stay out.’

  Threat or promise? she thought again, and wondered wildly why it felt more like a threat than the other. She felt suddenly nauseous and dizzy, and her fingers clutched the sand, but there was no substance, nothing to hold on to. Just as there would be nothing to hold on to if she never saw him again.

  Which meant, she told herself wildly, that she was going mad!

  She looked at him, at the tanned, oiled-satin skin that covered hard muscle and bone, the lean, lithe length of him, his masculinity only just covered by that wicked scrap of black fabric. She swallowed a moan and closed her eyes to block him out.

  ‘You offered marriage out of duty. Because it was the right thing to do. When you heard what Harold said, on that awful day, you believed him. You didn’t even bother to follow me to hear my side of it. You just let me go because I disgusted you,’ she muttered.

  Apart from one or two flashes of fighting spirit she’d been regressing ever since he’d turned up on the tiny island, and now she even sounded like her despised younger self—defensive and insecure.

  She shivered, and he said heavily, ‘I didn’t follow you because—misguidedly, as it now appears—I was telling our dear departed stepfather not to blame you for his depravities. I didn’t imagine you’d take off like a bat out of hell.’ He gave a sharp, impatient sigh. ‘Let’s get you back to the house.’ Suddenly he was on his feet, gathering up her belongings. ‘You look as if you’re about to faint. It’s the heat. And you probably need food. We’ll finish this conversation later.’

  Georgia wished he wouldn’t wait for her, but he did. And although he didn’t touch her she was so achingly aware of him it was like being in purgatory. He kept shooting quick sideways glances in her direction, his dark brows drawn together, as if to satisfy himself she hadn’t crumpled in a heap.

  She had never fainted in her life; her pallor and light-headedness was down to shock, not a lack of food. As he stood aside for her to step on to the veranda she said firmly, ‘I did not—’

  ‘Not now,’ he interrupted tersely. ‘After lunch. And remember, I don’t want to be fed a load of lies. I just want your reasons. Then I’ll get out of your hair. We won’t have to see each other again.’

  It couldn’t come quickly enough. He headed for his room. When she’d come to his room that night seven years ago his head had been blown away by a mixture of patent flu remedies, alcohol, fever and sex. It was only later, when he’d learned of the consequences, that he’d realised how much he cared about her, how much he wanted that sweet, loving, sexy creature in his life. Wanted their child. Wanted to protect, love and cherish the two of them.

  Now, his body still wanted her—more desperately than ever, he had to admit—but his intellect told him that she was about as sweet and loving as a queen wasp. A woman with attitude, as devious and self-seeking as they came. He remembered Vivienne, and grumpily decided it was bred in the bone.

  He’d be off the island before the day was over. Out of reach of her aura of sinful temptation.

  For the sake of his self-respect.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘YOU took your time!’ Blossom pounced the moment Georgia entered the spacious, forest-facing dining room. ‘Do I cook good food just to watch it spoil?’ She exited with a crackle of her huge starched apron, and returned almost immediately with a heavily burdened tray. ‘And that thing you’re wearing needs a laundering. You got pretty things; why don’t you wear them?’

  Georgia took her place at the lunch table: elegantly laid for two and decorated with a bowl of delicate pink flowers which filled the air with fragrance.

  ‘I changed into the first thing to come to hand,’ she said airily, and told herself, Liar! You deliberately went for the cover of shirt and trousers. Then she wondered if she’d chosen to wear these same things yesterday, while she’d been waiting for Jason to arrive on the island, because she’d known deep inside her that the sex thing still fizzled between them and she’d been looking for protection. From herself. From him.

  Blossom, muttering under her breath, set out a dish of spicy fried chicken, another of appetising mango, tomato and red onion salad, a platter of wafer-thin fried bread and a bowl of rice and peas, then stood back, her hands on her hips, waiting.

  Georgia knew she was getting the ‘fattening-up’ treatment, and quailed. She wouldn’t be able to get through a quarter of it, not the way she was feeling, her emotions in turmoil, her brain in a tangle over Jason’s accusation. The sooner lunch was over and she could set him straight the better.

  At least he could eat the lion’s share of the food and deflect Blossom’s wrath, she reflected as she helped herself to a little chicken and salad and spread it around her plate to make it look like a lot.

  ‘Mr Jason, he just grabbed a sandwich,’ Blossom grumbled, disabusing her. ‘The generator’s acting up, so he’s fixing it. That Elijah’s a no-good man—never around when he’s needed!’

  Left alone finally, Georgia ground her teeth with frustration. Jason had got the idea from somewhere that she’d got rid of their child, and from what he’d said he’d defended her against Harold’s slur on her morality because he hadn’t believed her capable of making sexual advances to her stepfather, not at that time.

  But now he did. He probably thought she’d earned her inheritance by lying flat on her back!

  The very idea made her feel ill. She gathered up most of the thin wafers of fried bread, walked on to the veranda through the open French windows and fed them to the birds. She felt the early-afternoon heat surround her, dewing her face with perspiration, sticking her clothes to her body.

  The need to talk to Jason, put him straight, vindicate herself, was imperative. But heaven only knew how long it would take to fix the generator.

  Blossom had a stand-by stove, which ran on bottled gas, and there were ample hurricane lamps, not to mention candles. But they needed the power supply for the huge refrigerator and deep-freeze. Jason wouldn’t show until he’d finished the job. He took his responsibilities seriously.

  As he had taken his responsibilities towards her and the child he had fathered seriously—enough to offer marriage, his care and protection.

  Her stomach tightened with regret, with old memories of yearning, loving and needing. Simple, blind adoration. But that was the past, gone beyond recall, and this was the present. She was a different person, with different needs and aspirations.

  She tossed the last of the bread to the chattering flock of birds and brushed the crumbs from her hands. There w
as only one constant, one threat that bound the past to the present.

  Sex.

  She walked back through the French windows and began to stack the lunch dishes on the tray Blossom had left on a mahogany side table. Sex. She could live without it. Had successfully done so for the last seven years. The price to be paid for emotional and physical involvement was way too high. Even if she hadn’t had her own experience to draw on, she had her mother’s.

  She’d just put the record straight regarding that fictional termination, and then, as he’d said, he would leave. And she would let him go, and that would be the end of it. She would wipe the effect he, and only he, had on her from her mind and regain all her energy, drive and ambition—because that was what had made her the woman she was.

  All she had to do was mentally let him go. Easy. Yet she wasn’t so sure it would be quite so simple when she carried the tray through to Blossom and Jason walked through the outer door of the kitchen, wiping his strong, oil-streaked hands on a rag.

  He was so gorgeous! That was the problem. Dark hair rumpled, a smudge of oil on one slashing cheekbone, his body emanating lean strength from the light covering of khaki drill shorts and loose black T-shirt.

  Her heart juddered and the dishes clattered on the tray. The stark urgency of her physical need for him made everything inside her shake.

  Blossom took the tray from her, tutting over the amount left uneaten.

  After giving her a swift but encompassing look from under his brows, Jason tossed the rag in the waste bin and said, ‘All fixed, Blossom. When Elijah gets back, ask him to be ready to ferry me over to San Antonio in time for this evening’s airbus, would you?’

  ‘You ain’t leaving so soon, Mr Jason? Why, you only just got here!’ Blossom wailed, dumping the tray on the sink with a clatter that boded ill for the delicate china. ‘Whatever can you be thinking of?’

  My sanity, Jason thought drily. My self-respect. I have to get out before I make a complete fool of myself and tell her I want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman before or am likely to in the future.

  To let himself be caught in the little witch’s web again would be catastrophic. Love and trust was infinitely more important than lust, no matter how compelling.

  He could no more trust her than he could sprout wings and fly.

  He said, in passing, ‘Needs must, I’m afraid, Blossom.’ And to Georgia, his eyes cold, ‘If I leave at four-thirty I’ll have time to clean up, get changed and packed and see you at four to round off that conversation. So don’t go missing.’

  Or else, his tone implied, Georgia thought bleakly as she watched the door swing to behind him. Half an hour to tie up loose ends. Was that all he thought she rated? She gave a mental shrug. She wouldn’t let it hurt. It wasn’t worth it.

  ‘And what conversation would that be, Miss Georgie?’ Blossom wanted to know, her black eyes shrewd. ‘You two been fightin’—is that why he’s leavin’ in such an almighty hurry?’

  ‘Just some unfinished family business, that’s all,’ Georgia responded, as repressively as she knew how. ‘And, no, we haven’t been fighting.’ Not the physical punch-on-the-nose variety, anyway.

  ‘You two don’t count as real family.’ Blossom vigorously scraped the leavings into the waste bin. ‘A stepfather in common, that’s all you got. And just as well, in my opinion. My eyes near popped out of my head seeing you follow him out of the water wearin’ just your skin!’

  Turning on her heels, Georgia stalked out of the kitchen. Long before she gained the privacy of her room she felt her face go crimson with painfully deep embarrassment. Blossom had seen her, from here in the house or from the cliff edge, had thought they’d gone skinny-dipping together—and goodness only knew what else!

  The humiliation wouldn’t be nearly so great if they really had been enjoying—

  No! She mustn’t let herself think that way, conjuring up images of their naked bodies twined together in the silky water, of slow, exploring hands, of kisses that deepened until they were devouring each other, of a hunger that built until it exploded into a wild white heat that fused them together in the ultimate intimacy…

  Grimly, she blanked out the erotic mental images, dragged off her crumpled clothes and stepped under the shower, adjusting the jet to cold. The heat seemed even more oppressive than usual now. Liberal dashes of cool cologne gave marginal relief. She brushed her wet hair and left it loose to dry.

  He would have showered, too, by now. And packed. He hadn’t appeared to have much in the way of luggage with him, so maybe he had never intended to stay for more than a couple of days. Maybe even less, if other things hadn’t got in the way of what he had really come for. Unfinished business.

  Things like the unreal, out-of-this-world happening down at the woodland pool, the discovery of the letter her mother had started to write. So what was he doing now? Passing time, leaving only the minimal amount of it to be spent with her, asking questions? Was he lying on his bed, naked, the paddle fans turning above his body, cooling him down?

  She imagined his body as it had been this morning, tanned, lithe, sleek with water. Imagined it without the scrap of black fabric that had only just concealed his impressive manhood.

  Just stop that! she told herself fiercely. Think of something else. Anything else.

  What to wear? She padded to the built-in wardrobe and opened the sliding doors. No need to smother herself in all-concealing cotton, she thought rebelliously. She had nothing to hide that he hadn’t seen before.

  Not bothering with underwear, because the heat was sticky now, she plucked a silky scarlet sundress from its hanger and wriggled into it. Tiny straps supported a scooped-out bodice. She could see the outline of her nipples through the clingy fabric, the soft curve of her tummy before the skirt flared out slightly, ending midway down her thighs.

  Provocative. She tossed her head, shaking her hair back from her face. She should worry! If he took one look at her and had a resurgence of the lust that had almost overcome the two of them down by the pool then there really wouldn’t be a problem.

  He had a boat to catch, a plane out to sanity and reason.

  The minimum of make-up: a slick of moisturiser, a flick of mascara and a gloss of scarlet on her lips. All flags flying. They would never see each other again, and she wanted his last memory of her to be vibrant.

  And that mattered to her. Probably much more than it should.

  She spent the waiting time in the quietness of Vivienne’s former room. She felt a deep empathy with her mother now, understood her, the way she’d acted. They’d both loved and been betrayed. The only difference between them was the outcome. Vivienne had had her child, and had bitterly resented the financial drain, the loss of freedom and the opportunity to have fun. Whereas she had lost the child she would have loved devotedly for the rest of her life.

  She couldn’t blame her mother for the way she’d acted. Different people handled disillusionment and pain in different ways.

  She heard Blossom calling out for her and suddenly became aware of the rain, a heavy tropical downpour. She slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  ‘So there you are. Mr Jason’s looking for you. I put cold drinks in the sitting room.’ Blossom’s eyebrows rose when she saw the way the flirty scarlet dress clung, but she nodded her head in silent approval. ‘Mr Jason tell me I won’t be needed again today, so I’m off to my own place to finish up my ironing—that’s if the rain don’t drown me first!’

  It was coming down in stair-rods; Georgia could hear it drumming on the roof. But it would stop as suddenly as it had started and everything would be back to normal—bright and sunny and serene. Just as she would be when Jason had taken himself out of her life again.

  Which couldn’t be soon enough. She was finding his presence increasingly hard to handle.

  He was waiting for her. The room was dusky, the heavy cloud cover hiding the daylight. He turned from the long window, where he’d been watching t
he once placid waters of the cove turn to a heaving gun-metal-grey capped with foam as it crashed to the shore.

  As his eyes swept from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes and slowly back again she caught the dark glitter of his smoky eyes, the tightening of his hard jawline, and her heart punched her breastbone, her nipples tightening against the silky cradling fabric in unwitting response.

  He couldn’t hide the effect she had on him, she thought, with a wild and reprehensible stab of elation, and the way she’d chosen to dress was her only means of punishing him for making her body crave the magic of his.

  And no chance of it rebounding on her because he would be leaving—she glanced up at the wall clock—in fifteen minutes!

  She could play with fire and not get burnt!

  ‘Before you say anything, Georgia, let’s get one thing straight.’ His voice sounded rusty, as if he had difficulty getting it to function. ‘I’m not like your father. I don’t run from responsibilities.’ He was pouring gin into two tall glasses, topping it up with Blossom’s tangy home-made lemonade. ‘Earlier, you said you thought I’d believed what Harold said and dumped you because of it. I would have married you, provided for you and our child, regardless.’

  He held out a glass to her and she stepped forward to take it, her fingers closing on the cool surface. Regardless of what? Of her coming on to Harold?

  He didn’t give her time to ask, said rawly, ‘Was the fear that I might do what your father had done to your mother responsible for what you did? Was Vivienne’s resentment of you, and the reason for it, the only thing you could see?’

  Her throat tightened with anguish. Accusing her of rushing for an abortion was the cruellest thing he could throw at her. Worse, far worse, than his belief that she’d been having an affair with her own stepfather. That was simply too absurd to bother to refute.

  He was watching her closely, waiting for her reaction, his hands pushed into the side pockets of his narrow-fitting fawn cotton trousers, his wide shoulders rigid beneath the black polo shirt he was wearing.