Bedding his Innocent Mistress: Sometimes the only way to fix the past is to create a whole new future...

by Clare Connelly

  “Well, Miss Hennessey, what do you say we have a swim before the sun sets?”

  Rafe had told Ivy that he wouldn’t hurt her. He’d told her he would make her fly. And he’d been doing that every day since she’d met him. He was the force at her back, pushing her forward, making her soar, bringing her dreams into her lap.

  “I say, yes.” And she did. With all of her heart, and for the rest of her life. Yes to Rafe, yes to the future, and yes to happiness.

  THE END

  Following is an excerpt from Clare Connelly’s THE TYCOON’S SUMMER SEDUCTION.

  CHAPTER ONE

  She’d never noticed how long Anita’s legs were.

  Strange, given that the two women had been best friends since Saphire’s tenth birthday.

  But apparently there was a lot she hadn’t really noticed about her friend before.

  The depth of her tan. The red of her fingernails. The tattoo of a butterfly that had danced darkly at the top of her thigh as she’d wrapped her legs around Saphire’s husband’s waist and begged him to, “Take me, baby, now!”

  Saphire blinked but the image was still there, where it would undoubtedly remain forever. Her best friend and husband making love against the perfect Laura Ashley sheets Saphire had picked out only a week earlier.

  No, they hadn’t been ‘making love’. Making love was what she and Jordan did. Making love was calm and affectionate; predictable and reassuring.

  Anita and Jordan had been going at it like wild beasts. They’d been having passionate, animalistic sex all over her perfect bedroom and what she’d thought was her perfect life.

  Her finger jabbed at the ‘call’ button in the armrest impatiently and a hostess appeared almost instantly.

  “Yes, madam?” She smiled politely, pretending not to notice the pallor of Saphire’s skin and the eyes that were bloodshot from far too much crying.

  “Another champagne, please,” Saphire murmured, crossing her legs and consulting the map shown on the screen that was recessed into the seat in front of her. The flight looked to be still at least an hour out of Athens and God, how she wanted to land.

  Despite its decadence, the plane was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. She sucked in a deep breath and, when the hostess returned a moment later with a crystal flute, Saphire took it as though it were a lifeline.

  The bubbles burned a little as she drank; she didn’t care. She threw back half of it in one go and then squeezed her eyes shut on the stingingly acidic sensation.

  How would she explain any of this to her parents? Two months after marrying a man they’d never approved of – a man she had insisted was the love of her life because of his trustworthiness and kindness, a man she’d thought would always do the right thing by her if only because he worked for her dad – she stood on the brink of … of what? Divorce?

  The thought left her with a cold ache in her gut. How could she leave Jordan? They’d been dating for ten years before he’d suddenly suggested, out of the blue, that they make it official. The wedding had taken place a week after that and had surprised all of their friends and family, despite the amount of time they’d spent as a couple. Had they been surprised not because of the speed with which Saphire and Jordan had married, but rather that they’d married at all? Had they all known that Jordan Arana was sleeping with the bride’s best friend?

  Had everyone known, and chosen to keep it secret?

  She pressed back into the comfortable leather seat and angled her head so that she could look towards the window. Only a man was between her and it, and his eyes were resting on her face with undisguised appraisal.

  Saphire hadn’t noticed him at all until that moment. They’d been flying for a while, but she’d been in such a state of shock that she’d barely computed her surrounds. It was a testament to good luck alone that she’d managed to get through customs and onto the flight in time.

  “By my count that is your third glass of champagne.”

  She arched her brows, refusing to notice that he had a face like a movie star’s. No, it was better than that, because it wasn’t ‘pretty’ or soft. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest that his stunning good-looks were a result of vanity or effort. It was a naturally chiseled face, with slashed cheek bones, a swarthy tan, eyes that were so dark they looked almost black and thick brows that perfectly framed his slightly mocking expression. His hair was dark too, cropped close to his head, giving him an air of strength and virility that Saphire instinctively recoiled from.

  “Should I be impressed at your basic grasp of mathematics?” She retorted sarcastically, reaching for the glass once more and finishing the rest of it easily. She hiccoughed quietly as she placed the flute back on her tray table, keeping the fingers of one hand curled around the elegant stem.

  He pressed his own call button without taking his eyes off her face. Saphire dreaded to imagine how she looked. Her hair, a polished shade of ebony, was always smoothed into a shimmering curtain but today it was flyaway and wild. Her makeup was minimal – just what she’d been able to scrounge from the bottom of her handbag as she’d instructed the cab driver to take her to the airport. At least her clothes were decent; she’d worn a Prada dress for the intended-lunch with her mother before realizing she’d left her cell phone at home and doubling back to collect it. She’d only been out of the house half an hour – Anita must have been practically waiting in the driveway for Saphire to leave, to have had enough time to peel her clothes from her slender frame and step into Saphire’s bed. Bitch.

  She shuddered as recollections of her husband and best friend’s tangled limbs flailed enthusiastically into her mind, like two octopuses happily scarpering along the depths of the ocean. The hostess appeared and the man lifted his gaze to her face. “Macallan, two cubes of ice.”

  “Right away, Mr Konstanides.” The attendant’s eyes dropped to Saphire. “And for you, madam?”

  Saphire had decided to quit while she was most definitely not ahead, but at the attendant’s query she said, a little groggily, “I’ll have the same. No ice.”

  “She will also have two ice cubes.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  His smile showed true amusement. “Scotch is meant to be enjoyed with ice. It will show a richer flavor.”

  She blinked and then pursed her lips. “No ice.”

  Her companion raised a brow but wisely said nothing. Instead, he shifted his weight in the chair, so that he was a little closer to her. He smelled good. Something unrecognizable spiraled through Saphire’s gut and it quickly gave rise to reluctant curiosity. He was so different to Jordan; Jordan, a high-flying lawyer and the son of a distinguished politician and a supermodel, was handsome, polite, wealthy, and oh so very civilized, in a sort of uptight way.

  This man was … she frowned. He was all those things too. Certainly the former. Gorgeous, virile, obviously wealthy if his suit, watch and the fact he was in the same first class cabin as she was, could be any guide. But there was a sort of feral animalism to him; something uncontained and restless that was at odds with his urbane demeanor.

  “Where do I know that name?” She pondered, her brain a little too fogged by champagne and grief to sort through the information she had stored at her fingertips.

  “Which name?” He prompted. His voice was like honey and caramel, thick and rich with a satisfying spice in the crispness of his vowels.

  “Konstanides.”

  “Perhaps you’re thinking of the airline,” he prompted with an air of unconcern that was almost definitely assumed.

  “Yes!” She jabbed a finger at his broad chest and smiled proudly. “You have the same name as this …” she waved her hand around the cabin, “As this plane person. People.”

  His smile was sardonic; it sent a shiver trembling down her spine. “Fancy that.”

  “The people who own the plane, I mean.”

  “Not just this plane; presumably they own the airline too.”

  She nodded. “Yes.” Again
she jabbed at his chest. “That’s strange.”

  He hid a laugh. “Indeed.”

  She lifted the scotch to her lips. She hadn’t drunk the liquor in a long time but she had a small taste now and didn’t hate it. She was numb, of course. Ordinarily it would have sent her retching to the bathroom. She had another mouthful.

  Her companion’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You drink like someone wanting to forget.”

  “Do I?” Saphire was shocked. Was it so obvious? Or was this man just unfathomably astute? She took another sip hoping to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Maybe I just drink like someone who wants to get drunk.”

  “In my experience, it’s the same thing.”

  “Do you have a lot of experience with drunk women on planes, then?” She asked, blinking her eyes innocently. They were a startling shade of blue; they reminded him of the Aegean Sea on a bright summer’s day. The effect, in her pretty face with bright red lips and dark brown hair, was stunning. Literally, he had found it difficult to wrench his eyes off her.

  “No.” He did his best to avoid talking to strangers, particularly beautiful, obviously troubled, hiccoughing, sobbing, champagne-sledging women such as this. And yet here he was, staring at her as though she held the secret to eternal life.

  “Who are you?”

  She dropped her gaze to the drink and ran her finger over the rim distractingly. “No one.”

  Her reticence infuriated him. He told himself to sit back against the seat and ignore her, but how could he? She was the one drinking like a soldier but the intoxication was wrapping right around him. He cradled his scotch without bringing it to his lips. “No one, huh?”

  “Why do you care?” She snapped, squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a shaky breath. It smelled of scotch. Her eyelashes were the longest he’d ever seen. He wondered, briefly, if they were fake, but immediately discounted the notion. There was nothing fake about this woman. From her inky hair and pearly complexion to those full, cherry-red lips and perfect breasts that were pushed up to reveal a heaving cleavage, she was all-woman and all-real.

  His eyes were drawn to the creamy color of her décolletage and lower still to the round orbs that would be more than a handful, even for him. Her nipples were peaking against the fabric. He wanted to touch them. To touch her.

  The certainty arrested his thoughts like a blade.

  What the hell had gotten into him?

  His eyes flashed to her face and he caught her, startled and aware, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. She’d seen his lazy inspection and she’d understood. Attraction was a flame that burst between them. Desire unfurled in his gut.

  “What?” She whispered, though she knew. She knew what he was thinking. She knew what he wanted. And the knowledge was a lightning bolt of much-needed confidence to her bruised ego. This man, this gorgeous, handsome stranger, was attracted to her.

  Stuff her idiot husband, who made calm, sensible love to her every few weeks. This man was wild and untamed, she could tell just by looking at him, and he wanted her!

  Without alcohol, she probably wouldn’t have realized, and she certainly never would have acted on the feeling. But now, rejected by the two people she was closest to on earth, pushed out by her best friend and her husband, she sought the flattery and attention of a man she knew nothing about.

  His validation had become, instantly, desperately, essential to her being.

  “Do you want to sleep with me?” The question surprised them both, but him more. Saphire knew, as she breathed the words out huskily, that she was seeking a path that might remove some of the pain her husband had inflicted. Surely if she slept with someone else, as he had Anita, she would begin to feel better.

  Two wrongs sometimes made a right, didn’t they?

  “Yes.” He didn’t bother denying it. Thaddeus had never been precious about sex. His predilections were well known. Consensual, adventurous, beautiful and commitment-phobic were his only requirements. And sober, which ruled this particularly stunning creature out. For the moment, at least.

  She released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “Why?”

  His laugh sent shivers dancing down her spine. “Why not?”

  A frown puckered her lips. He felt his arousal jerk in response. Those lips were too perfectly formed to frown. They had far better applications and he was reasonably desperate to begin putting them to use.

  “Is that what people do?” She asked after a beat. Her eyes scanned his. But alcohol was making it hard for her to focus. “Do people just fall into bed with each other because there’s no reason not to?”

  There was more to her story. His first appraisal, that she was drinking to forget something, seared in his mind. “Some do,” he shrugged. Her chest was heaving as she breathed and the pain as his groin stretched against his pants was intense. He lifted a finger to her throat and traced a line from the delicately fluttering pulse point to the neckline of her dress. She shivered but didn’t pull away or rebuke him, so he let his finger drop lower, to the nipple that was hard against the flimsy fabric.

  He squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger, and rolled it lightly. She made a soft moaning sound that did little to stem the intense throb of his desire. “I have a healthy appetite. When I see a woman I want, I do not hesitate to say so.”

  “And you want me.” It was a statement of wonder and doubt. The lust coursing through her veins was obviously mutual. Only she knew her own cravings had little to do with this man – as gorgeous as he was – and everything to do with a life-or-death obligation to remove her husband from her body.

  Jordan was the only man she’d ever slept with and that fact infuriated her now. They had been each other’s first and only lovers. Or so she had stupidly believed.

  He dipped his head in concession.

  “When?” She reached down and captured his hand in hers; her eyes locked to his as she lifted his finger to her lips and sucked on the end of it. Her mouth was warm and soft. It was his turn to feel the inside of his stomach roll with the promise of what she was offering.

  “As soon as this damned plane lands,” he growled, though mentally he factored in how long it would take for the alcohol to leave her system and for her to sleep off the largest hangover in history.

  “Not good enough,” she complained petulantly. “There must be somewhere …”

  He laughed softly. Her need was an aphrodisiac. He appreciated her sexual appetite; it matched his, which was rare.

  He knew instinctively that, until she was safely in his home, he ran the risk of losing her. And he couldn’t let that happen. So he lifted his scotch to his lips and sipped it.

  With the alcohol swirling in his mouth, he bent his dark head forward and took possession of her lips.

  Despite the tenor of their conversation, it had caught her off guard. She gasped; her lips opened and he trickled the alcohol into her mouth. His tongue lashed against hers and the kiss was so intense that droplets of the amber liquid ran out of the sides of her mouth down her neck.

  Saphire didn’t notice. His kiss was heroin and cocaine and its effect was instantaneous. Fire moved through her body, flaring in her womanhood. She was slick with need and burning up suddenly. She was going to do this. She was going to sleep with this man and then she was going to hang it over her idiot husband’s head.

  “I have a perfectly good bed in Greece,” he promised seductively. “And you will be joining me in it soon enough.”

  By the time the plane had landed, Saphire was almost catatonic with arousal. He linked fingers with hers and guided her off the flight; they were the first to leave. Saphire still felt completely fuzzy around the edges, so she was pleased for his strong arm for support.

  Customs passed in a blur. Somehow she managed to behave as though she were the sensible twenty six year old woman most people believed her to be. But her body knew differently.

  “Do you have a bag?”

  She shook her head. She’d had no time t
o pack one. “I was going to pick up what I needed here.”

  He nodded. A man appeared with a suitcase and Mr Konstanides nodded at him. God, Saphire didn’t even know his first name! She was going to sleep with this man – she was aching to sleep with him, in fact – and she knew nothing about him.

  “What should I call you?” She asked, as they powered through the airport with an air of sensual urgency.

  “I don’t much care,” he said honestly. He bundled her into a waiting black car. To her surprise, he took the position beside her, and the man who’d joined them seated himself at the wheel.

  She wanted Mr Konstanides with the strength of a thousand suns and yet the scotch had enervated her. She felt her eyes getting heavier and heavier as the car cut through Athens. By the time they reached the marina, she had fallen asleep. Her head was heavy against his shoulder.

  “Where are we?” She mumbled, as he lifted her from the vehicle and held her against his broad chest.

  “Almost there.”

  The words, short and clipped, reassured her. She sighed and let her eyes drift closed again.

  His speedboat made short work of the journey to l’isola ouranos. He watched her the whole time.

  In his experience, the women who hit the liquor bottles hard and decided to try their luck with one of the wealthiest eligible bachelors in Europe were all a certain type. Beautiful like Saphire Arana – he had seen her name when she’d flashed it unsteadily at the passport control – but without her vulnerability. It was that softness and sweetness that spoke to him. It was her obvious innocence that set his blood raging in his body.

  Thaddeus Konstanides was a strong man. He ran eight miles every morning. He’d had a weights room installed next to his office so that he could break up the sedentary obligations of his corporate requirements with a burning workout whenever he sought it.

  And he made love often, and with athleticism and strength.