Passion's Mistress

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘You should rest, like me,’ Ann-Marie advised with the ingenuousness of the very young, and Stefano lifted a hand to ruffle her curls.

  ‘I shall ensure she does.’

  It was eight when they left, and Carly turned slightly towards him as he eased the car on to the main road.

  ‘How many people will be there tonight?’ Her features assumed a faint pensive expression. ‘Perhaps you should fill me in with a few background details of key associates.’

  ‘Relax, Carly. This is mainly a social occasion.’

  ‘Yet the men will inevitably gravitate together and discuss business,’ she said a trifle drily, and incurred a long probing look as he paused through an intersection.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Should I be?’ she countered with remarkable steadiness, considering the faint fluttering of butterfly wings already apparent in her stomach.

  ‘I have no doubt you’ll cope admirably.’

  She sat in silence during the drive, and glanced out of the window with interest as he turned the Mercedes into a suburban street bordered on each side by tall, wide-branched trees. Seconds later the car turned into a curved driveway lined with late-model cars.

  The butterflies in her stomach set up an increasing beat as she slid out from the passenger seat and moved to his side, unprepared within seconds to have him thread his fingers through hers as they walked towards the main entrance. The pressure of his clasp was light, yet she had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t allow her to pull free from him.

  They were almost the last to arrive, and after a series of introductions Carly accepted a glass of mineral water and attempted to relax.

  It wasn’t a large group, sixteen at most, she decided as she cast a circumspect glance around the elegantly furnished lounge.

  Stefano possessed a magnetic attraction that wasn’t contrived, and Carly couldn’t help but be aware of the attention he drew from most of the women present.

  Seven years ago she’d lacked essential savoir-faire to cope with the socially élite among Stefano’s fellow associates. Nervous and unsure of herself, she’d chosen to cling to his side and smile, whereas now she was well able to stand on her own feet. It had to make a difference in her ability to cope with his lifestyle.

  Canapés and hors-d’oeuvres were proffered at intervals over the next half-hour, and it was almost nine when Charles and Kathy-Lee Winslow arrived with Georgeanne.

  ‘We were held up,’ Charles declared with droll humour as he steered his wife to where Carly stood at Stefano’s side.

  ‘By a taxi driver who decided to take advantage of the obvious fact we weren’t residents, and drove us via a few scenic routes that lost us twenty minutes and gained him twenty extra dollars,’ Georgeanne declared in explanation.

  ‘Stop complaining,’ Charles chastised with a broad smile. ‘We enjoyed a pleasant ride, we’re here, and I doubt anyone has missed us.’

  ‘I need a drink,’ his daughter vowed, her eyes settling deliberately on Stefano. ‘Would you mind?’ The smile she bestowed was nothing short of total bewitchment. ‘I’m thirsty.’

  Not just for a drink, Carly surmised wryly, for Georgeanne’s behaviour fell just short of being blatant, and she watched with faint bemusement as Stefano elicited Georgeanne’s preference.

  ‘Why, there’s Angelica,’ Charles’s daughter announced, and her eyes flew towards Carly with a very good imitation of expressed concern. ‘Oh, dear, how—awkward.’

  This could, Carly decided, become one of those evenings where Murphy’s Law prevailed, and she wondered what on earth she could have done to upset some mythical evil spirit who clearly felt impelled to provide her with such an emotional minefield.

  With detached fascination she watched Angelica locate Stefano’s tall frame at the bar, then cross leisurely to join him. She saw the beautiful brunette lift a manicured hand and touch his arm, saw him turn, and caught his smile in greeting. Angelica’s expression was revealingly warm. Loving, Carly added, feeling as if she’d just been kicked in the stomach.

  A confrontation was inevitable, and when they were seated for dinner Carly cursed the unkind hand of fate as she saw Georgeanne opposite at the large dining-table, with Angelica slightly to Georgeanne’s right.

  Wonderful, she groaned silently as she sipped a small quantity of white wine in the hope that it would provide a measure of necessary courage with which to get through the evening.

  Their hosts provided a sumptuous meal comprising no fewer than five courses if one counted the fresh fruit and cheeseboard that followed dessert. The presentation of the food was impressive, and Carly dutifully forked morsels into her mouth without tasting a thing.

  Conversation flowed, and she was aware of an increasing tension as she waited for the moment Angelica would unsheathe her claws.

  ‘How is your daughter?’

  Again, the faint emphasis didn’t go unnoticed, and Carly turned slightly to meet the brunette’s seemingly innocent gaze as she summoned a polite smile. ‘Ann-Marie is improving steadily.’ She aimed for a subtle emphasis of her own. ‘We’re hopeful it won’t be long before she’s released from hospital.’

  Angelica picked up her wine glass and fingered the long crystal stem with studied deliberation. ‘Stefano appears to delight in playing the role of devoted Papà.’

  Carly effected a negligible shrug. ‘You, more than anyone, should appreciate that Italian men are renowned for their love of family.’

  Carefully shaped eyebrows rose a fraction in unison with the faint moue of evinced surprise that was quickly camouflaged with a smile. ‘Proud of their sons, protective of their daughters.’

  Carly couldn’t resist the dig. ‘And their wives.’

  ‘Well, of course.’ The voice resembled a husky purr, infinitely feline. ‘And their mistresses.’ Her eyes assumed a warm intimacy that was deliberate. ‘What female of any age could resist Stefano?’

  Carly felt like screaming, but she forced her mouth to curve into a soft smile, and her beautiful eyes assumed a misty expression that was deliberately contrived as she lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrugging gesture that she tempered with a light musing laugh. ‘None, I imagine.’

  Stefano, damn him, was seemingly engrossed in conversation with Charles, and appeared oblivious to the content of her conversation with Angelica.

  What on earth did he imagine they had to discuss, for heaven’s sake? The weather? The state of the nation?

  It seemed forever before their host suggested adjourning to the lounge for coffee, and she felt strangely vulnerable as the men gravitated together on the pretext of sharing an after-dinner port while the women sought comfortable chairs at the opposite end of the large room—with the exception of Angelica, who stood at Stefano’s side, a blatant disparity among men, yet totally at ease with their conversation. It was carrying feminism and equality among the sexes a little too far, surely? Carly couldn’t help wondering if the men felt entirely comfortable. Yet she knew Angelica didn’t give a fig what her male colleagues thought. Her main motivation in joining the men was to clarify the contrast between two women—herself and Stefano’s wife.

  The difference was quite marked in every way, from physical appearance to business qualifications. Seven years ago it had seemed important, the chasm too wide for Carly to imagine she would ever bridge. Except that in her own way she had, for there was now a diploma, experience and added qualifications in her field, as well as respect from her peers. There wasn’t a thing she needed to prove, and if she so chose she could join Stefano’s associates and discuss any topic relating to corporate accounting and tax legislation.

  The coffee was liquid ambrosia, and Carly sipped it appreciatively, wondering just how long it would be before they left.

  ‘You must visit when Stefano brings you to the states.’

  Carly smiled, then thanked Charles’s wife for the invitation. ‘It’s quite a few years since I was last there.’

  ‘The house is large,’ Kathy-L
ee pursued. ‘We’d be delighted if you’d stay. We love having guests.’

  Carly could only admire Kathy-Lee for keeping pace with Charles’s high-flying existence, and playing stepmother—a masterly feat in keeping the peace, for Charles adored his precocious daughter.

  ‘I’ll leave the decision to Stefano,’ she said gently, indulging in inconsequential conversation for almost thirty minutes before Kathy-Lee had her cup refilled and was drawn by their hostess to join another guest who had professed an interest in Kathy-Lee’s preoccupation with interior design.

  Carly let her gaze wander round the room, settling on the broad frame of her husband as he stood idolently at ease and deep in conversation with two of his associates—one of whom was Angelica.

  Carly forced herself to study them with impartial eyes—difficult when she wanted physically to tear Stefano and Angelica apart.

  Angelica was a seductive temptress beneath the designer gown, leaning imperceptibly towards Stefano, her eyes, hands, body receptive to the man at her side, whereas Stefano stood totally at ease, his stance relaying relaxed confidence, an assurance that wasn’t contrived. And, try as she might, Carly could find no visible sign of any implied intimacy—on his part.

  Almost as if he was aware of her scrutiny, he turned slightly and met her gaze. For a moment everything else faded into obscurity, and she watched in bemused fascination as he excused himself and crossed the room to settle his length comfortably on the padded arm of her chair.

  His proximity put her at an immediate disadvantage, for she was extremely aware of the clean smell of his clothes, the faint aroma of soap intermingling with his chosen aftershave, an exclusive mixture of spices combined with muted musk that seemed to heighten the essence of the man himself.

  Within minutes his associates followed his actions in joining their wives, and Carly wasn’t sure which she preferred… being alone with a clutch of curious women, or having to contend with Stefano’s calculated attention.

  ‘Almost ready to leave, cara?’

  His voice was a soft caress, and if anyone was in any doubt as to his affection for his wife he lifted a hand and swept back a swath of curls that had fallen forward, letting his fingers rest far too long at the edge of her throat.

  There was a degree of deliberation in his movement, almost as if he was attempting to set a precedent, and it made her unaccountably angry.

  She wanted to move away, yet such an action was impossible, and it took all her acting ability to sit still as he brushed gentle fingers across her collarbone then slid them down her arm to thread through her own. The look in his eyes was explicitly seducing, and to any interested observer it was only too apparent that he couldn’t wait to get her home and into bed.

  Well, two could play at that game, and she gently dug the tips of her nails into the tendons of his hand, then pressed hard. ‘Whenever you are,’ she acquiesced lightly, casting him a soft winsome smile that was deceptively false. She would have liked to kill him, or at least render some measure of physical harm, yet in a room full of people she could only smile. As soon as they were alone, she’d verbally slay him.

  He knew, for his eyes assumed a mocking gleam that hid latent amusement, almost in silent acceptance of an imminent battle.

  With an indolent movement he rose to his feet, and Carly followed his actions, adding her appreciation with genuine politeness as they thanked their hosts and bade Charles and Kathy-Lee goodbye.

  ‘So early, Stefano?’ Angelica queried, effectively masking her displeasure.

  ‘My wife is tired.’

  It was nothing less than the truth, but she resented the implication.

  Angelica’s eyes narrowed, then assumed speculative amusement as she proffered Carly a commiserating smile. ‘Can’t stand the pace?’

  ‘Quite the contrary,’ Carly demurred sweetly. ‘Stefano is merely providing a clichéd excuse.’

  The resentment was simmering just beneath the surface of her control, and she contained it until the Mercedes had swept from the driveway.

  ‘You enjoyed setting me among the pigeons, didn’t you?’ she demanded in a low, furious tone.

  ‘Was it so bad?’

  To be honest, it hadn’t been. Yet she was loath to agree with him—on anything. ‘On a scale of one to ten in the curiosity stakes, our reconciliation has to rate at least a nine,’ she declared drily as he sent the opulent vehicle speeding smoothly through the darkened streets.

  ‘You more than held your own, cara,’ he said with drawled humour.

  Inside she felt like screaming, aware that it would take several weeks before the speculative looks, the gossip abated and eventually died. In the meantime she had to run the gauntlet, and she felt uncommonly resentful.

  ‘Nothing has changed,’ Carly voiced with a trace of bitterness, and incurred his swift scrutiny.

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘You have to be kidding,’ she declared vengefully. ‘Angelica would have liked to eat you alive.’ She was so incensed that she wasn’t aware of the passion evident in her voice, or the pain.

  Turning her attention to the darkened city streets, she watched the numerous vehicles traversing the well-defined lanes with a detached fascination. The bright neon signs provided a brilliant splash of colour that vied with the red amber and green of traffic-lights controlling each intersection.

  Transferring her attention beyond the windscreen, she looked sightlessly into the night, aware that Stefano handled the car with the skilled ease of long practice.

  The same ease with which he handled a woman: knowledgeable, experienced, and always one step ahead. Just once she’d like to be able to best him, catch him off guard.

  Yet even as the resentment festered she knew instinctively that he’d never allow her to win. A solitary battle, possibly, in their ongoing private war, as a musing concession to her feminine beliefs. But never the war itself.

  It was twenty minutes before the Mercedes drew to a halt inside the garage, and Carly made her way upstairs to the main suite.

  She was in the process of removing her make-up when Stefano entered the room, and her eyes assumed a faint wariness as she completed the task.

  It required only a few steps to move into the bedroom, a few more to reach the bed. Yet she was loath to take them, knowing what awaited her once she slipped between the cool percale sheets.

  Fool she derided silently. It’s not as if you lack enjoyment in the marital bed.

  The knowledge of her exultant abandon in Stefano’s arms merely strengthened her resolve to provide delaying tactics, and she plucked the pins from the elaborate knot restraining her hair, only to catch hold of her brush and stroke it vigorously through the length of tumbled auburn-streaked curls.

  It was mad to want more, insane to build an emotional wall between them. A tiny logical voice rationalised that she should be content. She had a beautiful home, and a husband whose business interests ensured they were among the denizens of the upper social echelon.

  Many women were confined in marriages of mutual convenience, happy to bury themselves in active social existences as their husbands’ hostesses, in return for the trappings of success: the jewellery, exotic luxury cars, trips abroad.

  Carly knew she’d trade it all willingly to erase the past seven years, to go back magically in time to the days when love was an irrepressible joy.

  Now it was an empty shell, their sexual coupling merely an expression of physical lust untouched by any emotion from the heart.

  Perhaps she was too honest, with too much personal integrity to survive within the constraints of such a marriage. Yet she was trapped, impossibly bound to Stefano by Ann-Marie. To remove her daughter from her father and return to their former existence would cause emotional scarring of such magnitude that the end result would be worthless.

  ‘If you continue much longer, you’ll end up with a headache.’

  Carly’s hand stilled at the sound of that deep drawling voice, and she stood motionless a
s Stefano moved to stand behind her.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she managed in stilted tones, watching him warily.

  He was close, much too close for her peace of mind, and all her fine body hairs quivered in anticipation of his touch.

  ‘We seem to manage very well without words,’ he said with a degree of irony, and she lashed out verbally at his implication.

  ‘Sex isn’t the answer to everything, damn you!’

  Her eyes unconsciously met his in the mirror, large and impossibly dark as she took in the image her body projected against the backdrop of his own.

  Without the benefit of shoes, the tip of her head was level with his throat, and his breadth of shoulder had a dwarfing effect, making her appear small and incredibly vulnerable.

  ‘No?’ he queried softly, and she was damningly aware of the subtle pull of her senses as she fought his irresistible magnetism.

  Her gaze remained locked with his, their darkness magnifying as he slowly lifted a hand and swept a heavy swath of her hair aside, baring the edge of her neck. His head slowly lowered as his mouth sought the pulsing cord in that sensitive curve, and she was powerless to prevent the sweet spiralling sensation that coursed through her body at his touch.

  Carly was conscious of his hands as they shifted to her shoulders, then slid slowly down her arms to rest at her waist, before slipping up to cup the swollen fullness of her breasts.

  She wanted to close her eyes and pretend the seduction was real, and for a few minutes she succumbed to temptation.

  His fingers created a tactile magic, sensitising the engorged peaks until she moved restlessly against him, craving more than this subtle pleasuring. A hollow groan whispered from her throat as his hands slid to her shoulders, slipping the thin straps of her nightgown down over her arms, so that the thin silk slithered in a heap at her feet.

  He didn’t move, and she slowly opened her eyes to focus reluctantly on their mirrored image, watching in mesmerised fascination as his hands slid round her waist and pressed her back against him.