Mistress: At What Price?

by Anne Oliver

  He was tired of the endless parade of women who’d manoeuvred their way into his life over the past few months, but he was Bachelor of the Year for another six months unless he made some kind of formal commitment with an eligible female, and that was never going to happen.

  Unless… His thoughts turned to Mariel again as he poured on shampoo and lathered his hair. It didn’t have to be a formal commitment… A regular date might just take the pressure off. A classy woman at his side. And Mariel was accustomed to the press. She had style and elegance and intelligence. Maybe they could come to some arrangement…

  But did he want to get involved—in any way—with the woman he’d never quite been able to get out of his system? He rinsed off his hair, reached for a towel. It was a moot point in any case. She’d never go for it.

  Mariel woke to the musical warble of magpies outside her window. Pushing her hair off her face, she rose, reached for her robe. Last night’s clothes lay in an untidy heap beside the bed. Not the way to treat her latest designer dress, which had cost her more than some people made in a year.

  The knowledge that it might well be her last indulgence had her picking it up and slotting it into the wardrobe, before padding to the window and staring out at the bushland beyond the property.

  The sun already had its claws into the day, scoring the rapidly drying undergrowth for any hint of remnant moisture. Heat and light. She stretched her arms open in welcome after the hibernation beneath heavy, restrictive clothing the European winter necessitated.

  She rummaged through her partially unpacked suitcase. Fifty quick laps up and down the pool was just what she needed. Since she couldn’t find her swimsuit, and she had the house to herself, she pulled out the first matching set of underwear she found: sapphire, with little cherries all over and a red satin trim.

  At the edge of the pool she paused, then in a moment of madness decided skinny-dipping was the way to go and stripped off.

  She plunged into the refreshing coolness and angled straight to the bottom, then up. As she sliced through its mirrored surface, she concentrated on the tang of chlorine, the pool’s aquamarine lining and the burn of her muscles as she headed for the far end with long, slow strokes.

  The last time she’d been swimming had been during a photo shoot on the Riviera in August, but she’d been working, and her enjoyment had been marred by the hordes of beachgoers and photographers. This morning she had the pool to herself. Pure luxury.

  She knew almost before she surfaced that her notion had been premature. A ripple of sensation, as if someone had run their knuckles down the length of her spine, was her first and only warning.

  Dane stood near the edge of the pool, a folded newspaper under one arm. Unlike last night’s sinful black, today he was wearing white. Casual white shorts. White body-hugging T-shirt. Old. Worn. Soft. She imagined it against her fingers. Or her cheek. Her pulse tapped a wild, irregular rhythm. Unlike his top, his shorts were loose. They gave her a far too detailed and up-close view of tanned, hairy and very muscular legs. And, from her lowly position, more than enough exposed thigh…

  She jerked her eyes to his. He’d slipped his sunglasses on top of his head and seemed to be rooted to the spot—

  And then she remembered… Oh, God, she was stark staring naked.

  She inhaled, gulping in a mouthful of chlorinated water, and managed, barely, to sputter, ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced at her clothes and towel. Impossibly out of reach. Her cheeks filled with heat and the already irregular pulse picked up speed.

  Stepping closer, to the very edge of the pool, he studied her with those piercing grey eyes. ‘Watching you. Do you need rescuing?’

  ‘No!’ Oh, God. Oh, no. She sank as low as she could, crossing her arms over her chest and struggling to stay afloat while every skin cell vibrated as if he was physically stroking her. The water was as clear as glass; no part of her was hidden from his powerful gaze. ‘How long have you been here? Never mind. Pass me my clothes.’

  ‘No need to panic; I’ve already seen you naked.’ His mouth quirked and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Lucky for her—or him—depending on one’s point of view, right now they were focused on her face. But for how long?

  The heat in her cheeks rushed to every tingling part of her body. ‘Seven years old does not count. And I’m still traumatised by it.’

  He picked up her underwear, held the items out over the water for her. Just a fraction too high, she knew—and he knew. She remained as she was.

  ‘Wasn’t my fault you forgot your towel and risked running bare-assed down the hallway.’

  ‘Whatever you say. Hurry up.’

  ‘Nice undies, by the way.’

  She was acutely, devastatingly aware that he wasn’t looking at her undies. A shiver rippled through her. The water suddenly felt chilled against her overheated flesh.

  Just when she thought he wasn’t going to play nice, he released them. They hit the water with a plop, floating on the surface just far enough away so that she had to uncross her arms and manoeuvre sideways a fraction. She snatched them to her with a murmured, ‘Thank you. Now, if you’ll be a gentleman and turn your back…’

  ‘Thing is, Mariel, I’m no gentleman.’

  For a few seconds the air hummed. The tension between them crackled. She couldn’t reply, could only think that if she reached out she could wind her fingers around that calf and feel how hard that muscle really was. Then pull him closer and sink her teeth into that flesh. Fair punishment.

  He took a step back, as if he’d anticipated such a move, then—finally—turned away. ‘Did you realise there’s a photographer a couple of hundred metres down the road?’ His casual comment was followed up with an equally casual, ‘They could have a long-range camera set up for all you know.’

  Oh, hell. With shaking fingers she struggled to pull on the meagre covering—no easy feat underwater. ‘Maybe they’re just keen birdwatchers,’ she said hopefully. Half decent at last, she hauled herself out of the water.

  At the sound, he turned to her once more. ‘You should be more aware of security when you’re on your own. I could have been any stranger.’ She snatched up her towel and blotted water from her face, bemoaning the fact that her complexion was winter-lily pale without its make-up mask.

  ‘But you weren’t. And you remembered the gate’s security code—clever you.’

  ‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’ He tossed it on the little glass table between two loungers.

  ‘No.’ In a brisk flurry of movement she scrubbed the rough terry towel down one arm, then the other. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I’ll let you decide.’

  She felt his gaze on her and realised she was holding the towel in front of her as if she wasn’t totally comfortable in her own skin. As if she wasn’t used to men looking at her.

  She wasn’t used to this man looking at her.

  His gaze drifted lazily down to her breasts, barely covered by her cherry-splashed blue bra, then lower, over the high-cut bikini briefs. ‘If you don’t watch out you’ll burn that tender European-climate-accustomed skin.’

  Burn? Her skin already felt singed and raw and tingling. Her nipples, already pebbled from the cool water, contracted painfully.

  She swiped the towel over her body one last time, then swung it around her neck, fisted her hands and lifted her chin. Their eyes connected across the stone pool surround. ‘So is it the society pages or the ghastly gossip column?’

  ‘Check it out for yourself. Page twenty-three.’

  There was a shot of the two of them leaving the wedding, and a smaller one of Dane’s car parked in her parents’ driveway.

  The mystery woman on Dane Huntington’s arm last night appears to be none other than Mariel Davenport, daughter of wealthy landowner Randolph Davenport, Europe’s latest modelling sensation. Ms Davenport flew in from Paris and, it seems, straight into the arms of her old friend and flame. Could this cosy reunion signal the end of Adelaide’s most
popular Bachelor of the Year’s reign?

  Bad. Bad. Bad. She didn’t bother with the small print underneath. She tried to laugh, but the sound came out parched. ‘Local gossip. You don’t pay any heed to that rubbish, do you?’

  His enigmatic expression didn’t change. ‘How do you feel about it?’

  She shrugged and headed towards the house, the hot concrete burning the soles of her feet. ‘It’ll settle down in a day or two.’ When Dane resumes his regular playboy lifestyle. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘I picked up croissants on the way, figured you’d want to share. They’re in the kitchen when you’re ready.’

  She thought about the article while she took her shower. Being seen with Dane had cast her in a spotlight when she absolutely didn’t need it. It wouldn’t take much digging for someone keen enough to unearth the dirt on Paris and Luc and fling the mud at her. She’d never be able to set up a successful business here with that negative publicity. Hopefully the attention would fade when they realised there was nothing going on.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DANE found coffee, a plunger and mugs, switched on the kettle and studied the business pages while he waited for Mariel to take a shower. He could hear the water running and schooled himself not to think about all that gorgeous flesh and warm soapy water.

  Safer, much safer, to think about making that date he’d promised the robust blonde surfer chick he’d met in the bar last week. The fact that he’d had no intention of following up was irrelevant.

  He looked up when Mariel appeared, and his gaze drifted over her of its own accord. She wore a navy mini sundress with a bright floral pattern and a white lace trim. It hugged that sensational figure and left miles of bare leg. Heaven help him.

  ‘That feels much better,’ she said, taking a seat opposite, her enticing still-damp fragrance wafting across the table.

  He didn’t agree. Ignoring his body’s wayward but inevitable response, he poured them both a coffee, then, remembering, he withdrew a small plastic self-sealing bag from his pocket. ‘I was cleaning out my car the other day and found Phoebe’s diamond earring.’

  ‘She lost her earring? In your car?’

  He noticed Mariel’s complexion fade, her green eyes taking on the hue of winter’s frost-covered paddocks. Interesting.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, yes.’

  She stared at him. ‘You and Phoebe…?’

  ‘Me and four women, actually. Drunk as skunks, talking dirty to me and giggling themselves silly.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She picked up her mug, but there was a smidgeon of uncertainty beneath the scorn.

  ‘Ever tried to ferry a gaggle of women home from a hen night?’

  ‘Hen night?’

  ‘Amy’s do. Drunk on Mai Tais, Screaming Orgasms and a male stripper. Well-endowed, too… Their words, not mine. The bride-to-be appointed me chauffeur for the evening.’

  Mariel’s expression didn’t alter, but he saw something flicker in her eyes. She reached for a croissant, broke it open. ‘I bet that put a dent in your social calendar.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He took a croissant himself. ‘I’d do it for you if you asked.’

  ‘Strip and ply me with Screaming Orgasms? No thanks.’ She raised her mug, took a gulp, then set it down with a chink. Her crisp retort made him smile on the inside. But only for a pulse-beat, because the image she conjured with her sharp retort hit him right between the thighs.

  He lifted his mug to his suddenly parched throat and took a long, slow swallow. ‘I meant chauffeur duty. You don’t have a car yet, do you?’

  ‘Actually, I do. A pretty yellow hatchback. I’m picking it up today.’

  He watched her eat in silence a moment, considering his words before speaking again, but he had to know for sure. ‘What’s the deal with your business partner?’ He rolled his mug between his fingers. ‘He isn’t only your business partner, is he?’

  ‘No. He—’ She shook her head, pressed her lips together as if she was afraid of saying too much. ‘And the word’s was. He’s history. Leave it at that.’

  She drank her coffee greedily, then finished off her croissant in three quick, careless bites. ‘It’s handy you’re here; you can put those chauffeuring skills to work and drive me to the car dealer. If you’re not busy with any other…ah…commitments, that is.’ Without looking at him she rose, carried the dishes to the sink.

  ‘Clear schedule today.’ And wasn’t that handy? ‘When do you want to leave?’

  She rinsed the dishes, put them away. ‘I’ll be ready in a few moments.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  While he waited he finished off the business section of his newspaper. Twenty minutes later he folded it and wandered over to the window. What had happened between Mariel and her lover? He told himself it was none of his business. He was still pondering when he heard her footsteps cross the tiles.

  She’d accessorised the sundress with hot-pink sandals and matching beads.

  She looked fresh. Fun. Gorgeous.

  His fists tightened in the pockets of his shorts. Once he’d have told her, but now, with this current friction like a live wire between them, it was probably wiser to keep the verbal admiration to a minimum lest it be misinterpreted.

  She stared at him a moment, a small frown marring her forehead, as if disappointed to find him lacking in the compliments he’d have once voiced without thought.

  Then she spotted his car keys on the kitchen table. Their eyes met and duelled in the familiar battle he’d all but forgotten. ‘Uh-uh, I’m driving.’ She got to them first, swept them up with a laugh and jingled them above her head. ‘Your Porsche. All the way to town.’

  ‘You think so?’ He was behind her in a second, fingers tangling with hers, wrestling for possession.

  Mariel’s laugh snagged in her chest as his familiar deep voice vibrated against her ear and between her shoulderblades. The smell of healthy male sweat and Dane’s own brand of scent seemed to wrap around her. She leaned back…or did he shuffle forward?…and his body bumped against hers and her grip on the keys faltered.

  All movement ceased. Even her heart seemed to stop for one long breathless moment. His T-shirt shifted lightly against her bare back so that she was oh-so-aware of the hard abdominal ridges beneath. Over the whisper of the air-conditioning she heard the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. Felt Dane’s hand locked over hers. The rough edge of a fingernail. His breath on her hair. The power he could wield over her, both body and mind… If she let him…

  She hesitated a beat too long. She sucked in a breath, but it whooshed out again as he spun her round. She glimpsed the molten steel in his gaze before his lips clashed with hers. Hard, impatient. If she’d been able, she’d have used her hands to push him away but they were trapped between them. His heart pounded heavily against one palm; his car keys dug into her chest in the other.

  She had no time to think as sensations battered at her. The heat of his hands on her bare back, her breasts flattened against his rock-solid chest, the sound of her pulse thundering in her ears.

  As if he commanded it, her lips opened beneath his, softening and allowing his tongue entry, duelling with hers in an erotic battle of wills. His taste swirled through her mouth, the after-taste of coffee, and something darker, richer, smoother.

  There was nothing gentle about it; this assault on the senses was nothing like last night’s getting-reacquainted-and-see-how-we-like-it kiss.

  It thrilled her. It terrified her. It gave her the strength she needed to push him away for the second time in as many days. She glared up at him, at the sharp angles of his face, harsh with a desire that had nothing to do with tenderness. Colour slashed his cheeks, his lips. She sucked in air, found it rich with his scent.

  His eyes…she couldn’t read them behind the storm she saw there. ‘Who do you think you are, manhandling me that way?’ she demanded, and was appalled at the breathy, needy sound of her voice.
<
br />   ‘You’re over him or you wouldn’t have let me kiss you. Not last night. Not now. And definitely not like that.’

  Like he really meant it.

  Rather than tingly, her lips felt swollen and numb. She ran an experimental finger over them to check that they were still there. He’d told her last night that he’d enjoyed it, and that she had, too.

  ‘Why did you come back, Mariel?’

  ‘I told you, I—’

  ‘Aside from catching up with family.’

  She forced herself to take a slow, steadying breath. To take a mental step away from what had just happened here and focus on Dane’s much more important question. ‘I want to create my own fashion label, set up my own boutique.’

  ‘You could have done that overseas.’ His voice lost some of its hard edge. ‘Or didn’t you think Paris was big enough for the two of you?’

  Because her legs barely supported her, she sank onto the nearest chair. ‘It wasn’t that.’ She stared at her hands in her lap. He had to ask, didn’t he? Better to get it over with.

  He took a chair, turned it around and sat astride it, leaning his forearms on the back. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Luc’s a fashion photographer; smooth and sophisticated, and he swept an innocent girl like me away.’

  At the low, throaty sound she looked up to see Dane’s jaw knotted. He nodded brusquely. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He liked my designs, but he liked my face better so I modelled for him. We went into business together. The money rolled in, we got involved, I moved into his apartment. It never occurred to me not to trust him. But it turns out Luc’s a drug dealer and he was having a fling on the side. I was just a useful addition to his cashflow. He was arrested on Christmas Day. I was taken in for questioning, too, and fingerprinted before being released.’

  ‘The bastard.’

  ‘Yes.’ Remembered humiliation washed through her. ‘My family knows nothing of this, and I want to keep it that way.’