Mistress on Loan Page 7

  She hastily put the coffee jar away and took down the packet of herbal teas instead. She'd claim she was tired, and making a bedtime drink. Send Zelda away reassured.

  Bracing herself, she opened the door and found herself staring up at Chay Haddon's unsmiling face.

  'What are you doing here?' Her voice sounded unnaturally husky.

  'Don't play games.' He stepped into the kitchen, kicking the door shut behind him. 'It was a terrific exit, Adie, but you didn't fool anyone, least of all me. I can't wait until Friday, and neither, I suspect from your reaction, can you.'

  'Get out of here,' she said, her throat tightening. 'Get out of my house.'

  He shook his head. 'You don't mean that, and you know it Because you're as curious as I am— wondering how it'll be between us.'

  'No,' she said. And again, desperately, 'No—we had an agreement...'

  'It's a dangerous world out there,' he said.

  'And a lot can happen in a week. I might not come back. You might run after all. And I need to know, Adie. I need to know how long you'll maintain those stony defenses of yours once your clothes are off. How your body's going to feel against mine—under mine. Whether your mouth will be honey and musk—just as I've always dreamed.'

  He took a step towards her and she backed away, lifting her hands in front of her in a futile effort to ward him off.

  'Please...'

  ·Why not?' His brows lifted.

  'It's too soon,' she said hoarsely. 'I—I'm not ready.'

  He shrugged. 'Sooner—later. What real difference does it make? You gave your word, Adie. Are you reneging on your promise.'

  'No.' Adrien bit her lip. 'But by Friday I'll have had a chance to think it all through. To prepare myself.'

  Chay shook his head. He said softly, 'I disagree. I say it's time you stopped thinking—and started feeling instead.'

  He took another step forward, and she retreated again, only to find herself blocked by the work surface behind her.

  'Poor Adie,' he said. 'Nowhere left to run.' He was close to her now, but still not touching. She could almost feel the warmth of his skin. Sense the tautness of his muscular body. She stared up at him, aware that her legs were shaking.

  And he looked back at her, his mouth twisting in something that was not quite a smile.

  He said quietly, 'Close your eyes, darling.'

  'Why should I?' Her voice sounded thick.

  'Because it's the first barrier, and I want it removed.'

  He made it sound totally reasonable, and after a pause she obeyed, feeling an enervating weakness spreading through her body as the chilling inevitability of it all began to invade her conscious mind. He was going to kiss her, she thought. And that was not new. She'd briefly known the touch of his mouth on hers already.

  But what would follow was totally outside her experience, and she could feel panic closing her throat. His arm went round her, drawing her forward, gently but quite inexorably, and she swallowed, golden lights dancing behind her closed eyelids and she waited for his lips to take hers.

  Instead, she was aware of his fingertips, light as gossamer, on her hair as he stroked it back from her face, before moving slowly over her temple and down to her cheekbone. The brush of his fingers followed the shape of her face, then discovered the faint hollow below her ear, where they lingered, tracing a gentle, tantalising spiral. That was, she realised, shocked, almost enjoyable.

  As enjoyable, in fact, as the delicate movement of his other hand against her spine, making the silk of her top shiver against her skin.

  A faint, insidious excitement was sending its first tendrils through her being, drying her mouth and sending her pulse-beat ragged.

  Her voice didn't sound as if it belonged to her.

  'Why are you doing this—please...?'

  'Hush.' His mouth just touched her parted lips in a caress so fleeting she might have imagined it.

  'You don't look. You don't speak. Speech is the second barrier.'

  She could just capture a trace of the cologne he wore— expensive, but elusive. Seductive enough to tempt her to put her face against his tanned skin and breathe it deeply.

  But she couldn't afford any more temptation, she realised breathlessly. Not while she stood, blind and silent in his arms, her whole body tingling with awareness of those tiny patterns his fingers were drawing on her flesh. And not just awareness. Arousal.

  A slow, sensuous warmth was spreading through her veins, drugging her, blotting out all sensation but the subtlety of his caresses. And just as she thought that she couldn't bear any more, that she'd have to beg him to stop, his hand moved downwards, skimming the slender line of her neck and throat, to the smooth angle of her shoulder. Where he paused. A small sound rose in her throat, to be instantly stifled, and in return she thought she heard him whisper, 'Yes.'

  His fingers slid beneath the neckline of her top, pushing aside the flimsy edge as he began to explore the delicate line of her collarbone, so minutely that he might have been committing it to memory. Adrien was dimly aware that her stance had changed. That she was no longer rigid within his encircling arm but leaning back, her body gently slackening, allowing him to support her. And that under the silky top her breasts were tautening in anticipation of the moment that would come when he... Ah, dear God, the moment that was here—now.

  Her breasts seemed to blossom and flower at his touch, the nipples erect and eager for the flutter of his fingers against their hardening peaks. Her back arched in sensuous joy and demand, all thought of resistance finally ebbing away. She felt the edge of the wooden worktop pressing against her back as his other hand moved slowly down in its turn, smoothing its way over the curve of her flank and lingering over the slender pliancy of her thigh. Leaving her on some knife-edge of bewilderment and need, her body hot and fluid in anticipation of his touch. Her nipples were aching, on fire with pleasure. She wanted him to kiss them—longed to experience the balm of his tongue. Her thighs had already parted—inviting his exploration—pleading with him to discover this intense molten desire for him in a demand more potent for being silent.

  Her breathing was in tense abeyance, her lower lip caught between her teeth in an attempt to balance the pain of this unlooked for yearning. And then, like the lash of a whip across her senses, it was over. Chay released her, straightening her clothing in one practised movement.

  'I think you have a visitor.' His voice was cool, even expressionless, as if he was some stranger with whom she'd been exchanging thoughts on the weather, Adrien thought dazedly.

  Then, instantly, she heard Zelda's voice outside the back door, calling, 'Adrien—are you there! Are you all right?'

  By the time she'd opened the door and walked in Chay was on the other side of the kitchen, attending to the kettle which had come unnoticed to the boil.

  'Oh.' Zelda checked in obvious embarrassment when she saw him. 'I'm sorry. I saw all the lights come on and wondered... I didn't realise...'

  'Everything's fine.' His smile was relaxed, charming. As if she was the one person in the world he'd wanted to see, and at that particular moment, Adrien thought with a silent gasp of outrage. 'I was on the point of leaving, anyway,' he added, adding fuel to the flames. 'I just had—a few final details to settle with Miss Lander.'

  'Well, if you're sure,' Zelda began doubtfully.

  'Totally.' He nodded for emphasis, then turned to Adrien, his expression cool—even impersonal. 'I think that little discussion has made things much clearer, don't you? I look forward to continuing our dialogue next Friday. Please don't move,' he added quickly, as she took a half-step forward, her lips parting indignantly. 'I'll see myself out.'

  He favoured them both with another swift smile, and was gone.

  'Well,' Zelda said, with a wealth of meaning. 'So, what was that all about?'

  'I don't know what you mean,' Adrien said evasively, wondering if she could walk across the kitchen without her legs collapsing und
er her. Her body, subjected to the sexual equivalent of cold turkey treatment, had gone into shock. Zelda gave her an old-fashioned look. 'Who are you kidding? You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. I thought I'd walked into a force field.'

  'Nonsense.' Adrien found her way to the cupboard and took down two beakers and a jar of coffee, moving busily, even fussily, to cover her complete disorientation and her seriously flurried breathing. 'We were simply talking business.'

  'That's the kind of business I like.' Zelda gave her a catlike grin. 'So that's the new model Chay Haddon. Actually, he hasn't changed much. Still blond, still sexy, but definitely more outgoing.' She paused, giving Adrien a speculative glance. 'And you're looking good yourself. Isn't that your new outfit?'

  Adrien bit her already sore lip, and winced as she spooned coffee into the beakers and brought the kettle back to the boil. 'We've been out to dinner. I felt I'd better make an effort—that's all.'

  'Well—did it work?' Zelda asked with painful intensity. Adrien stirred the coffee, and tried to get her mind in gear. 'I suppose it did,' she said quietly. 'At any rate he— he's going to pay for the work on the Grange—settle all the bills—and let me finish the project. So, we don't have to worry.'

  'Oh, God.' Zelda closed her eyes. 'There is a Santa Claus.' She took a breath, then gave Adrien another penetrating look. 'So, what's the snag?'

  'Why should there be one?' Adrien handed over a beaker and took a scalding mouthful of her own brew.

  'Because I don't believe in Santa Claus,' Zelda said grimly. 'So, what's the worm in the apple—the fly in the ointment?'

  Adrien hesitated. She hadn't time to invent a story, so a half-truth would have to do.

  She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. 'He wants me to move back into the Grange while I'm sorting it out.'

  Zelda frowned. 'Why?'

  'It's nothing new.' Adrien took another gulp of coffee, hoping that would explain the sudden rush of colour into her face. 'After all, I have been staying there for the past couple of weeks.'

  'Yes,' said Zelda. 'But that was when you thought you and Piers were going to be married and the Grange semi-belonged to you. That's not the case any more. So, what gives?'

  'There's still quite a bit of work to be done,'

  Adrien parried. 'And he has his own ideas as well. So he wants me on the spot to make sure everything's done properly.'

  'Can't he do that for himself?'

  'He's away a lot.' Adrien bit her lip. 'Anyway, by paying off the contractors he's got me off the hook, so if he wants a favour I can't really argue about it. I—I owe him.'

  'Gratitude is one thing,' said Zelda. 'Although I hope what I interrupted tonight wasn't you simply being grateful,' she added drily. 'But the guy can't expect to own you, body and soul. Remember that.'

  Adrien forced a smile. 'Now you're being silly,' she said, surreptitiously crossing her fingers in the folds of her skirt.

  But he does own me, she thought, her mind shuddering away from the events of the past half-hour. He does—and there's not a thing I can do about it...She still could barely believe her reaction to his advances. She had nothing but dislike and contempt for him, and yet she'd stood there and let him do what he wanted without a word of protest, and, but for Zelda's arrival, she would probably be having sex with him at this moment.

  I'm as bad as he is, she thought, wincing with distaste.

  Zelda spoke, her voice gentle. 'Adie—if you don't want to accept Chay Haddon's offer, say so now. We'll manage somehow. It's not too late.'

  Oh, but it is, Adrien thought. It was too late from the moment I saw him standing there, looking up at the house.

  'Everything's fine.' She lifted her chin. 'Living at the Grange won't be particularly convenient, but it's only a temporary measure. Soon—very soon—life will be back to normal again.'

  And she wished with a kind of dread that she could believe her own reassuring words.

  * * *

  Just a few more hours, Adrien thought, turning the Jeep into the Grange's drive. When the day ended, her life would have changed forever.

  It had been a strange week. The days short, as she'd struggled to finish the Grange. The nights all too long, as sleep had proved elusive.

  Do what she would, she had not been able to forget her last encounter with Chay—or forgive herself for it either.

  And something told her that she was going to pay dearly for those long moments of self-betrayal in Chay's arms.

  She should have insisted that they adhere to the original terms of the bargain—made him leave. Oh, she could see it all now. Why hadn't she been as wise at the time— instead of melting like some sex starved idiot? she berated herself savagely. Yet wasn't mat exactly what she was?

  I'm a throwback, she thought. A total, pathetic anachronism. I don't belong in the twenty-first century. Looking back, she could see that Piers's determination to postpone the physical consummation of their relationship until they were married hadn't been the act of a chivalrous romantic at all.

  He had to sweet-talk me to get me to restore the Grange for him, she thought bleakly. But that was as far as it was ever going to go. The rest of it was my imagination.

  She'd lain in the darkness, night after night, trying to remember how Piers's arms had felt—his kisses. And to recall her own responses.

  She'd been in love with him, she thought wonderingly, yet, to her shame, not one of his embraces had ever stirred her as Chay's lightest touch had done. She shivered. How had Chay been able to exert such power over her, and with such consummate ease, too? It seemed too glib to tell herself that he was just a very experienced man toying with the senses of a relatively innocent young woman. But what other explanation was there?

  It was almost as if she'd been bewitched.

  But next time he wouldn't find her mental and emotional defenses so fragile, she promised herself grimly.

  She'd found it easier to cope in the daytime. There'd even been times when work on the house had taken her over again. When she'd been able to lose herself in the pleasure of restoration, watching the Grange coming to life again. When she could look around her and allow herself to bask in the satisfaction of a job well done.

  All the contractors had returned to work, presumably on Chay Haddon's guarantee, and although she'd been aware of curious glances from some, and an air of constraint from others, no one had referred to the returned cheques, or even to the new ownership. At least not in her hearing. Sometimes she'd even been able to relegate the price she had to pay for Piers's defection to the back of her mind. Until something would occur to remind her of the new regime, and how intimately she'd soon be involved with it.

  The arrival of the phone company to install extra lines and points had been the first thing, and that had been followed by a vanload of high-tech office equipment. And today she'd been told to expect the arrival of another consignment of furniture.

  The first load had arrived the previous day. She'd watched the men carry in chairs and sofas, with luxurious feather cushioning and brocaded covers in sapphire, ivory and jade. They looked good in the formal surroundings of the long drawing room, but she'd been in no mood to admire Chay's taste. The beds, too, were all brand-new, and ostentatiously large, Adrien had noted, tight-lipped, as she'd directed which rooms they were to be placed in.

  She'd chosen a relatively modest queen-size bed for her own quarters, a bedroom with its own tiny shower room and an adjoining sitting room, at the opposite end of the house to Chay's suite.

  And today she would complete the furnishing of her little suite. She'd brought an easy chair from the cottage yesterday, but she still needed a chest of drawers and a night table. However, a number of small items of furniture that Piers had deemed not good enough to be auctioned had been relegated to the cellar, so she might find something down there. Inside the house, the contractors were clearing up and preparing to leave. She'd been astonished at the amount of work they'd got throu
gh lately, until she'd heard one of them say that Chay Haddon had promised them all a bonus if they finished on time. How nice, she thought, to have that kind of money, and to be able to wield that kind of power.

  She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then took the cellar key from the hook and went off to investigate.

  The cellar had once been Angus Stretton's pride and joy, but now it looked more like an explosion in a junkyard, she thought without pleasure, as she switched on the single light bulb. His collection of wine had been the first thing Piers had sent off for auction.

  That should have warned me that he could be short of cash, she thought with an inward sigh. But I believed him when he said he didn't want to live in the past.

  But then—what hadn't she believed?

  Moving carefully, because the entire place was thick with dust and the spiders had been having a field day, she began to sort through the hotchpotch of chairs, stools and occasional tables. One of the first things she found was the little davenport that had once stood in the morning room, with one of its delicate pillars snapped off.

  That could easily be repaired, she thought, touching it with a protective finger. Maybe she should make an inventory of everything that was down here. Underneath a box of odd cups and saucers she came upon a small circular mahogany table, its veneer chipped and scratched but otherwise intact, and a matching chair needing a replacement seat cover. Nearby she unearthed a three-drawer chest, also in mahogany, the bottom draw lacking a handle. Chay would hardly begrudge her any of those, she thought.

  She manhandled the small table up the cellar steps, and was just catching her breath when a voice said, 'Miss Lander?'

  She was confronted by a small, rather plump woman in a neat navy suit, with smartly cut grey hair and bright dark eyes.

  She said briskly, 'I'm Jean Whitley. I believe you're expecting me.'