The Accidental Mistress (18 page)

‘May I come in, then?’

What am I just standing here staring for?

‘Yes, please do.’ She skittered back, aware how big he was, big and lithe and vaguely menacing in his dark clothing as he strode past her. His presence dwarfed both her and everything else in room around her. When he’d been sitting down in the bar it had been impossible to gauge his height, but he was tall, very tall.

Already he was in control of the situation, and he’d barely spoken yet.

‘I’m Shelley Moore. How do you do?’ She stepped cautiously forward as he spun towards her and looked down at her. His eyes were sharp, darting to every part of her in the space of a few instants, sizing her up like the expert in the female form he probably was. She felt like a piece of meat, and even though she couldn’t work out why, that excited her even more.

The way he looked at her seemed to vaporise her clothes and leave her naked and vulnerable before him. She held out her hand and his smile shifted, quirked.

‘Pleased to meet you, Shelley,’ he said in his pleasant low voice that was already doing strange things to her innards. ‘I’m Sholto. Sholto Kraft.’ He laughed softly. ‘At your service, you might say. Shall we have a drink and get the formalities out of the way?’

Shelley let out a nervous laugh of her own, but her new friend just looked at her, his expression friendly enough but unrevealing. She handed him the envelope of money from her bag, and he slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

Sholto Kraft? Surely it wasn’t a real name. Dare she ask him?

They stood looking at each other for several long moments until it suddenly dawned on her that he was waiting for her to get him a drink. That was a bit odd. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one doing the serving and pleasing?

‘I’ll have a whisky.’ Turning away from her, he set his attaché case down on the bed, and flicked open the latches, but didn’t open it. Looking over his shoulder, he added, ‘Nothing with it, just ice, if you please.’

Suddenly something dawned on her, in a plume of anger.

‘So you
did
see me in the bar. I looked at you, but it was as if you looked straight through me. Even though you must have known who I was.’

‘Of course I saw you. But some women prefer not to be approached in public, and it’s better to err on the side of discretion.’

What a cool customer. Her first impressions had been spot on. He was detached and arrogant, a clinician rather than a lover. Unease stirred in her gut, along with more wayward feelings. A strange, whirling, out-of-control sensation, dizziness of the head, but also a wild apprehension, a physical tightening. Of everything.

Jesus, here I was thinking I was in control, and I’m just as much in over my head as Lizzie was.
And
I’m paying for it!

Without knowing when she’d done it, she realised she’d clenched her fists, and as she loosened them, Sholto’s eyes flicked, registering the small movement. His rather hard mouth quirked, skirting around the edges of amusement.

‘We’re here now, anyway. Let’s have that drink?’ he suggested. He spoke mildly, but Shelley instinctively shuddered, sensing steel beneath the bland words.

She stomped to the mini bar, wishing she’d kept her shoes on for a more effective stomping technique. This was ridiculous. He was supposed to be her treat and he was making her feel weird, and slightly cross and unsettled. It wasn’t what she’d expected, but her blood was racing around her body, disturbing areas that shouldn’t be disturbed by anger. Heating her up.

The drinks she made were approximate, stupidly strong. She coughed when she sipped hers and poured in more ginger ale. Still too potent, but she made a point of lingering over it before bringing Sholto his.

But he was smiling properly now, his eyes alight. He knew her tactics. He thought them hilarious.

‘What kind of a name is “Sholto”, then? Surely not your real one?’

He took a sip of whisky and pursed his lips as if he wasn’t immune to its peaty bite.

‘Actually, yes, it’s my real name,’ he said, taking another sip and then putting the glass aside. In a swift economical gesture, he shed his leather jacket and tossed it across the chair. ‘My parents were a little fanciful. I took hell in school because of it … until I learnt to give hell back again.’

Shelley couldn’t bring a schoolboy with a strange name to mind. She was too busy staring, open-mouthed, at a man. At muscles. At power. At elegant flexion in upper arms and shoulders beneath smooth black cotton. And a belt, a heavy leather belt, circling his narrow waist.

He threw her scrutiny back at her, his green eyes coasting over her breasts, her thighs, the area of her crotch beneath her dress. Lifting his glass again to his lips, he drank more whisky. He was a gentleman at a sporting club appraising an example of fine horseflesh.

Shelley was that example, a trembling filly, her nostrils flaring as she scented danger in his faint spicy fragrance.

Right! I’ve had enough of this. I’m not supposed to feel this way!

‘I’m going to get changed. Won’t be a minute.’ Why was she making excuses, apologising. He was the one who should be seeking her approval, not the other way around.

‘Good idea.’

With her heart fluttering and her face scarlet, Shelley turned and strode into the bathroom, only just managing to keep from slamming the door behind her.

How dare he be so casual? He was supposed to make her feel relaxed and mellow, and at every turn he seemed to be deliberately unsettling her. And worse, the more he unsettled her, the more it made her belly crawl with desire and her sex moisten. It was hard to understand. It made her head feel strange, filled with a sort of anti-euphoria. She felt guilty and angry with herself.

And it was like he was watching her too, even though there was a wall between them.

Bloody hell, this isn’t what I wanted at all. This isn’t relaxing and all about me.

Still, though, she stripped off her clothes and slid into the soft fluffy robe again. Developing her prevarications skills, she cleaned off some of her make-up, justifying the time spent by telling herself she didn’t want to get foundation on the hotel bedding when she lay down for her massage. The mini containers of beauty products supplied were luxurious, and she made a note to slip them into her bag before she left. Might as well get as much as she could out of this experience, seeing as how her Sensual Massage Guy hadn’t turned out quite as she’d expected … and wanted.

Well, I’m not having sex with you, mister! Massage only. If I feel horny, I’ll deal with myself, thank you very much.

But in her mind, those green eyes flashed, as if daring her to take on Sholto Kraft and make the most of what he had to offer. Which she suspected was quite a lot. She’d set out with the plan to enjoy lots of foreplay and, especially, oral … but what would it be like to just have hard sex with a hard man like the one who was out there waiting for her?

His body was superb. All muscle, but not in a gross way. And down below, a sizeable package, which she realised now she’d automatically checked out, even though she’d instantly
not
liked him.

Stop faffing about, Shelley, get the hell out there! You’ve paid good money for this. More than you can afford. Don’t let it go to waste.

Head up, she turned the handle, almost flung open the door and marched out of the bathroom. All business.

Only to stop, her jaw dropping, when she saw what her new nemesis had laid out on the bed.

A blindfold. Buckled restraints. A nasty-looking ball and strap device that could only be a gag of some kind. Various implements that were obviously for inflicting corporal punishment.

‘What the hell is all this?’

‘Just a small selection of the tools of my trade. I have more in my case, if you want to see them.’

The voice from the shadows was richly amused, like double cream poured over gravel. Shelley spun on the ball of her foot, and found Sholto sitting in an armchair by the big window that looked out across the city. He’d removed his black t-shirt, and the tanned skin of his arms, his shoulders and his deep chest gleamed, catching errant light from the
small lamps that were dotted around the room. Shelley had never seen menace look so delectable.

‘No! I don’t want to see any more. I don’t even want to see those.’ Her heart bashed in her chest as her imagination threw scenarios at her … images of herself, bound, gagged. She almost squirmed where she stood as a jolt of arousal speared her belly and, to her astonishment, her pussy quickened. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but this isn’t what I requested. Not at all.’

Ah, but you want it. You’ve been desperate to try this, ever since Lizzie told you what she gets up to with John!

The news came on the television, and Lizzie smiled. Like all men, John leaned forward, avidly attentive. He muttered during the financial reports, tutting and shaking his head.

‘Oh dear, does that mean you’ll have lost a few million? Will you have to give Dalethwaite Manor back?’ she teased.

He shrugged. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m always careful. I cover all my positions. Eggs in baskets and all that. But I think everyone wishes the recovery was going a helluva lot better.’

‘You can say that again. Mrs Briggs had to put the rent up again last month.’ It was true. They were managing all right, but she’d thought twice about her gamble to give up temping and throw herself into sewing full time. She’d grabbed at the opportunity when Marie had offered her part-time work in New Again to top up her income.

John gave her a sharp look. ‘I can help you with that. There’s no need for you to struggle in any way. You have me to take care of your needs now.’ He waggled his blond eyebrows at her. ‘And that means
all
your needs.’

She grinned back at him, but beneath it, her unease stirred. He only wanted to help, so why did she always feel so
uncomfortable about taking things from him? It was stupid really. He gave generously, and without thought of return, and it made him
happy
to give.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know if I can’t pay my rent.’

The weather came on next – mostly fine, a bit of rain tomorrow evening – then local news. It was almost always lightweight stuff, and far too many novelty stories for her liking, but tonight, the presenter assumed a grim face, announcing a serious car accident on a local bypass, with two fatalities at the hands of a drunken driver.

Regrettable as it seemed, Lizzie sometimes let stories like that flow over her. There was nothing she could do to help the victims, so faux woe on their behalves seemed hypocritical. But suddenly, tonight, the account tolled like a dark bell through the shadowed room, almost dampening the flickers of light from the screen.

A fatal car accident. Dangerous, drunken driving. It was almost as if the victims and grieving families were in the room with them, heavy with sorrow, like Marley’s ghost … and all pointing the finger of guilt at John.

He didn’t move, not a muscle, but even in the dark, Lizzie could see his whole demeanour had changed.

Another news item came on – local pigeon fanciers – but still he stared at the screen, as if turned to stone, the beautiful line of his jaw so taut she was sure it must actually hurt.

This wasn’t something they could brush off, or get around. She reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder, aching when he flinched, his whole body tense.

‘You paid for what you did, love,’ she said softly. It was almost as if he were a wild horse and if she spoke too sharply, he might spook. ‘You can’t change it now, especially after all
these years. Please don’t beat yourself up any more. You are a good man … you just made a mistake. Everybody does.’

‘But not everybody’s mistake leads to someone’s death, Lizzie.’ His body trembled beneath her touch. Trembled hard. ‘I’m a killer … that’s what it boils down to.’ He turned to her and she saw a sheen in his eyes, a polish on the clear sky blue. ‘Can you really care for a killer and bear to have him touch you?’

After all these years, his remorse was so keen. A lesser man might have brushed it off by now, but not John. Not her John. She slid her arms around him, and drew his head down on her shoulder, holding him tight. Was he weeping? She didn’t know … If he wasn’t, he was still bottling it up, even now. There was nothing she could do but keep on holding him. That and press a kiss to his golden curls, as if that might somehow heal him and allow him to heal himself.

But it could never be that easy. Twenty plus years was a long time to carry such guilt and pain. It might never fade or get better if it was still so strong after all this time.

‘If you’d committed a deliberately evil act, it might bother me. But even then if you felt remorse for it, I could give you the benefit of the doubt. None of us are perfect, but I know in my heart you’re not a bad man …’ She hugged him tighter … ‘And I’m never happier than when you’re touching me, or I’m touching you. Here’s another thing I’m going to put out there … with a pin in it … I love you, John, whether you killed somebody or not.’

Turning to her, his eyes were wide, full of emotion, jumbled emotion. Had she made a huge mistake? It was hard to tell. He opened his mouth to speak but she pressed a finger against his lips, against their plush yet resilient surface that she loved to kiss.

‘Say nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Pinned, remember? No need for a response. I know you care about me. You show it in a million ways. That’s enough …’

He kissed the tip of her finger. ‘You’re a wise woman, Lizzie. Perhaps the wisest I’ve ever met.’ Twisting around in her hold, he slid his arms around her, and she in turn offered her mouth to him.

He sighed as he kissed her, as if her lips were a precious gift, beyond all price.

‘Ah … role play … Excellent. Always a better experience.’

What the hell was he talking about? Shelley’s heart thudded hard, as, suddenly, she remembered something. Oh God …

She remembered checkboxes, and dithering, then bottling out and thinking, ‘Nah … not really.’