Mistress for a Month

by Miranda Lee

  Rico’s first reaction to this suggestion was negative in the extreme. Renée had gone right off her brain when she found out he’d had Dominique investigated. If she ever discovered he’d done the same to her, she would…

  What? Rico asked himself irritably. What would she do? Hate him some more? She already hated him.

  Besides, there were things other than her financial status which he would like to know. Like how many other men she had slept with since her husband died? And who?

  ‘There is another reason which brings women to the altar,’ Ali said. ‘Could she possibly want a baby?’

  Rico stopped breathing. A baby…

  ‘The woman is thirty-five years old,’ Ali went on. ‘She doesn’t have too many more child-bearing years ahead of her. You are always saying you want a family. And, despite what Renée has said to you in the past, we all know you would make a good father and possibly even a good husband. You’re Italian, after all,’ he said with an engagingly warm smile. ‘Maybe that’s her secret heart’s desire. To have a child.’

  Rico swallowed. Could Ali be right? And if he was, could Renée still be intent on securing her heart’s desire, without the wedding ring?

  A month of condomless sex, she’d promised him. But what if her reassurances over her being safe had all been lies? What if a baby was her secret heart’s desire?

  If so, what else had she lied about last night? Or faked?

  No, no, he couldn’t accept that reasoning. Renée’s responses to him had not been pretence. She’d enjoyed the sex. All of it. No woman who was faking orgasms went that far.

  No, a baby was not what she wanted from him, Rico decided, despite not wanting to come to that conclusion. The idea had excited him momentarily, as it had last night. But it was a false and futile excitement, born of a desperate desire to believe his relationship with Renée could become more than a one-month forced affair. Renée would never choose him as the father of her baby, if a baby was what she wanted. Frankly, he’d be the last man on this planet she would choose.

  No, spite was the odds-on favourite reason for her asking him to marry her. Money was the second favourite, although still a rank outsider. But worth looking into. Leopards didn’t change their spots. She’d married once for money. If her chips were down, she’d do it again. She might not be broke as such, but women like Renée had one credo in life. You could never be too rich, or too thin. Just as Ali said, she was a high-maintenance gal.

  ‘You’re right,’ Rico said. ‘I’ll have her finances investigated.’ Amongst other things. He was curious to see just who she had been sleeping with since her husband died. And how many.

  Meanwhile…

  He ripped off the top sheet of the notepad and stood up. ‘You won’t mind if I keep this, will you?’ he said as he slipped it into his trouser pocket.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing. Yet. But it seems silly to destroy evidence.’

  ‘Why don’t you just tell her you love her and ask her to marry you?’

  Rico stared down at Ali then burst out laughing. ‘Would you, if you were in my shoes?’

  ‘If I were in your shoes, I would have made marriage my prize in the first place, not just sex. Then I would have had both.’

  Rico laughed again. ‘I see you’ve not become fully acquainted yet with the ways of the western world. Marriage in this country does not give a man automatic rights to his wife’s body.’

  Ali looked truly taken aback. ‘Then why marry?’

  ‘Exactly. You might have noticed that more and more Australian men are not exactly rushing off to the altar.’

  Ali shook his head. ‘A sad state of affairs if a man can’t make love to his wife when he wants to. I would not enter into that kind of marriage. Was that a problem with your first wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. A piece of advice, then, my friend. If you find money is not the issue here and you still want Renée as your wife and not just your mistress, why don’t you try to get her pregnant? Women can change their attitude to a man once a baby comes into the picture,’ he added with a touch of irony, Rico imagined. ‘That’s a thought, but I don’t have control of the contraception part. She’s on the Pill. And yes, I know if you were in my shoes you’d probably kidnap the object of your desire and whisk her off to some remote hideaway where there was no Pill and nothing to do but make your beautiful captive pregnant.’

  God, but that was a good idea. He’d be tempted if Renée wouldn’t eventually have him arrested for kidnapping and rape and goodness knew what else.

  Ali smiled. ‘I might have done something like that once. But not now. Now I content myself with passing pleasures when it comes to the ladies. I suggest you do the same with the merry widow. Enjoy her for the next month, then be done with her.’

  ‘This could mean the end of our Friday-night poker games,’ Rico pointed out.

  Ali shrugged his broad brown shoulders. ‘All good things come to an end, my friend. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. A good philosophy for life, don’t you think?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ACTUALLY, Rico did not agree. He liked to anticipate any upcoming bridges. He was a planner as well as a doer. He could never just sit back and not worry about future difficulties, if he thought he could change or solve them in advance in some way.

  Which was why his first job after checking out of the hotel and walking back to his new city address was to contact IAS and give them the job of finding out Renée’s present financial status, along with a full report on her private life over the past five years. He needed to know what he was dealing with here. And asking Renée for the information herself was not an option. She would not tell him the truth. On the contrary, he could guarantee that she would lie her spiteful little tongue out.

  The boss of the investigation agency—his name was Keith—told Rico over the phone that he could expect to know the lady’s financial status within the week, but it would take another couple of weeks before they could fully report on the other matter.

  ‘Such enquiries take time, Mr Mandretti,’ the man informed Rico. ‘Especially since you said it was vital Mrs Selinsky not find out people were asking personal questions about her.’

  Rico finally hung up, satisfied that he was at last using his brains where Renée was concerned. Amazing what a little distance could achieve. Ali was wrong about his being madly in love with the woman. The disease he was suffering from was strictly sexual in nature. So far. Hopefully, he would be cured before it changed into anything else.

  Meanwhile, he had to protect himself from any weird and wonderful agenda Renée might still have where he was concerned. Her demanding marriage on that piece of paper had really thrown him for a loop there for a while. She must have been momentarily out of her mind. He hoped so, anyway.

  With a dry laugh he padded across his main living room and clicked open the sliding glass door which led out onto the wide, sun-bathed terrace which ran around three sides of the penthouse. Stepping out onto the terracotta-tiled floor, he walked over to lean against the tubular steel railing which framed the shatter-proof glass panels beneath.

  Rico had always liked this place, inside and out. Its central location, along with its heated lap-pool and the spectacular views, put this particular penthouse in a class of its own. There weren’t many apartments, even right on the harbour, where you could see so many Sydney icons from so many vantage points. The opera house. The bridge. Circular Quay. The Rocks. And, of course, the city itself.

  Rico was admiring it all when the sun suddenly went behind a heavy bank of cloud, casting an instant gloom over the buildings and water below. When a cool breeze started ruffling his hair he turned and went back inside.

  Shaking his head once more at the fickleness of Sydney’s spring weather, he made his way over to the kitchen and set about cooking himself a belated breakfast. Food had been the last thing on his mind lately, his body and his brain
having other priorities. But, now that he thought about it, he was damned hungry. Clearly, his energy stores had been severely depleted by last night’s activities. He would need to refuel if he was going to keep up with Renée tonight. He had to give the witch credit for one thing: when she honoured a bet, she sure as hell honoured it!

  In no time, Rico had a king’s breakfast in front of him and fresh coffee perking away, filling the air with its mouth-watering aroma. He settled himself at the breakfast bar and tucked in to a calorie-laden plateful of bacon and eggs, mushrooms, grilled tomato and French toast.

  ‘Great kitchen, this,’ he muttered to himself between mouthfuls.

  With the preparation of food having become so much of his life, Rico was very appreciative of a good kitchen. This one was state-of-the art, with sleek white cupboards, black granite benchtops and the latest in stainless-steel appliances. It was also a pleasure to cook in. Very well designed in a U-shape, with an internal island and this very handy breakfast bar along one side, complete with comfy stools.

  Actually, no, it hadn’t come complete with these stools. Charles had taken all his furniture with him to his new home in Clifton Gardens. He’d been responsible for the purchase of these stools, which were very modern, in keeping with the kitchen. Steel-framed, with red leather seats.

  They also matched the new dining and lounge suites he’d bought, along with the rest of the furniture, although he hadn’t personally chosen a single thing. He’d commissioned a small but well-recommended interior-design company to do the job for him, telling the lady boss the style of furniture he liked—clean lines and modern Italian. Plus the colours he liked—primary. And presto, three weeks later he’d walked right in to a totally user-friendly home.

  The designer had taken care of everything. Linen, crockery, cutlery, glassware as well. All stylish and classy. She’d even had the kitchen cupboard stocked with food. Rico had been impressed, and very pleased.

  He’d been renting a furnished apartment since his divorce and hadn’t owned a single household item. Jasmine had been awarded everything of that nature, claiming those things had meant more to her—the little housewife at home—than him.

  What a laugh. Jasmine hadn’t even been able to cook. He’d done all the cooking—when they’d stayed home for meals, that was—and the cleaning service that came in every morning had done everything else.

  Looking back, Rico had to agree that he’d been a short-sighted fool to marry Jasmine. He’d been seduced by his ego—and other parts of him—into thinking she loved him, and vice versa. He should have known that if he’d truly loved her, he would never have been so attracted to Renée.

  Renée…

  Back to her again. He had that woman on his brain. Well, at least he had done something about the situation with her. Not that his mistress-for-a-month solution would necessarily solve anything. He had an awful suspicion that come the end of the month, his sexual obsession with Renée would have grown, not dissipated.

  Don’t shave.

  The provocative P.S. on her note this morning jumped into his mind, and he reached up to rub the stubble on his chin.

  Impossible to put anything but a sexual connotation on that request. Impossible not to start wondering what erotic fantasy had inspired it. Over which erogenous zone did she want him to rub his hair-roughened skin? The same places he’d poured champagne over last night, then licked it off?

  His stomach crunched down hard at the images that sprang into his mind. Last night had turned out very differently from what he’d anticipated. There’d been no need to seduce her—not after those initial few moments. She’d been with him all the way. And then some.

  There’d been times when she’d astounded him with her passion, and her need. She simply couldn’t get enough of him.

  That was why he’d been so put-out when he woke this morning to find she was gone. Because he’d begun to believe—or hope—that it was him personally that she wanted and needed. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. Clearly, she was simply a highly sexed creature who’d possibly gone too long without a man. He would be very interested to find out exactly how long it had been since her last lover.

  Rico suddenly realised he’d been sitting there for ages without eating. When he tried another mouthful, he grimaced before reluctantly swallowing. Everything was stone-cold. Oh, well, at least he’d finished most of it. And there was still the coffee.

  Getting up, he walked round to the sink and scraped the rest of the food down the disposal unit, then put all the utensils tidily into the dishwasher before pouring himself a corpse-reviving mug of very strong coffee. After he added a hefty slurp of milk and three teaspoonfuls of sugar he set off for the master bedroom, sipping as he went.

  Time was slipping away and he didn’t want to be late for the races. He didn’t want to miss a second of being in Renée’s stimulating company.

  As it turned out, however, Rico was late for the races. He’d forgotten that they were not on at Randwick that Saturday afternoon, but at Rosehill Gardens, which was on the opposite side of the city. He’d almost reached Randwick and had just turned on the car radio to the racing channel when an announcement made him realise his mistake. Cursing, he swung the Ferrari into a U-turn and headed west. But by the time he arrived and parked his car, the first race was already under way. He could hear the cheering as he hurried across the car park.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ he muttered frustratedly to himself.

  Once inside the members’ enclosure he headed straight for the members’ stand and the bar where Renée was most likely to appear between races. A drink was called for by then, something long and cold. A beer. Not that the weather was hot, or even warm. That cloud earlier had thickened and the day was overcast and cool.

  Not so Rico. He felt as if he had a furnace stoking up inside him.

  By the time he’d finished his beer there was still no sign of Renée, so he wandered out onto the veranda, which overlooked the grounds below, his gaze scanning the groups of people still standing around on the expanses of lawn or leaning against the saddling-enclosure fence. The horses had by then returned from the track, with the jockeys dismounting to go inside to be weighed. The four place-getters were standing in their parallel-placed stalls, steam rising from their flanks. The winner’s trainer was beaming and the happy owners—a large group of middle-aged suits—were chatting and laughing together.

  Rico envied them for a moment. There was nothing like leading in a winner. But then his eye was caught by a sight that drove all thought of winning races from his mind.

  Renée was standing on the lawn, chatting away with some strange man. But not the Renée Rico was used to seeing at the races. Not the one who always wore a tailored trouser suit in some bland colour, along with sensible pumps, little make-up and a simple, smooth hairstyle. This Renée was totally different.

  She was wearing a dress for starters, a smart black wrap-around coat-style dress with padded shoulders, deeply cut lapels and a black leather cummerbund belt that pulled her already tiny waist into a double hand-span size. The end result was an hourglass shape that drew the eye, first to the amazing amount of cleavage she had on display, and second to her legs, those gorgeous long legs that had been wrapped so deliciously tightly around him last night.

  Usually, she kept them hidden under trousers. Today they were encased in shimmering black pantihose and easily admired, courtesy of the shortness of her hem and the height of the killer shoes she was wearing. Black too, of course, with tall heels, pointy toes, cut-out sides and ankle straps. Quite wide, they were, as was the black satin ribbon she wore around her throat.

  Rico could hardly believe his eyes. And the changes did not stop there. Her hair was different as well, both in colour and style. Jet-black now instead of walnut-brown. Still shoulder-length but layered and feathered around her face, as was the current fashion.

  Rico couldn’t say that it didn’t suit her, because it did, as did her more extravagant eye-make-up and the scar
let gloss that shone brightly on her mouth, that mouth which had kissed him all over last night and which was at this very moment talking and laughing with another man, a rich-looking grey-haired gentleman, whose eyes were glued to her cleavage. Rico was less than fifty feet away so he knew damned well where that dirty old man was looking, and what he was thinking.

  Had she sensed him standing up there at the railing, glowering down at her? Must have, for she lifted her face and their eyes connected, his instantly dark and dangerously jealous, hers sassy and sparkling.

  She waved up at him before saying goodbye to her companion and heading towards the flight of steps that led up to where Rico was still standing, fists curled tightly over the railing. He remained right where he was, struggling to regain his composure, knowing full well that her appearance today was designed to torment him, not please him. She’d lost the bet last night but was still trying to win the war between them. How better to beat him than to turn him into a jealous, gibbering idiot as well as a bewitched, besotted fool.

  She was the one intent on doing the seducing and the corrupting, he realised with sudden insight. That was what last night was all about, and what today was all about.

  Rico’s breathing quickened at the boldness of her counter-attack. He had to admire her. She had guts all right. And spirit. But it was a dampening thought that she might have faked a few things last night. Maybe she wasn’t as enamoured of his technique as he’d imagined.

  Whatever, he simply had to take her vamp-like appearance in his stride this afternoon or fall right into her trap. He thought he had himself under control again, but, as he turned to watch her join him on the veranda, her right knee lifted to take the final step and that action, combined with a puff of wind, flapped back the wrap-around slit in her skirt, giving him a gut-churning glimpse, not of pantihose but of lace-topped stockings and black suspenders, sensuously stretched against her soft, pale thighs.