Mistress on Loan (13 page)

Her head fell back on his shoulder, allowing him to kiss her throat, and she felt the hot flicker of his tongue in the whorls of her ear.

She was trembling in earnest now, but not with fear, consumed by a maelstrom of other far more unwelcome emotions. Her throat muscles were quivering under the caress of his mouth. Her breasts were swelling, blossoming with excitement under the subtle play of his fingers, and this wasn't how she'd planned it at all.

She hadn't bargained for her own curiosity, she thought dazedly. For the frustrations of her relationship with Piers. It was those dreams, those longings which had awoken her. It had to be.

Because it couldn't be the hands and lips of the man who was holding her. Who was turning her gently in his embrace, lowering her to the pillow so that she was lying beside him—beneath him—his nakedness grazing hers. Whose mouth was seeking hers, caressing her lips, then coaxing her lips apart to accept the heated silk of his tongue.

His hands clasped hers, raising them above her head so that he could feast on the satin skin of her underarms, while his leg slid across, covering both of hers, pinning her to the bed, so that she could not have moved even if she'd wanted to.

Making her realise, to her shame, that it was the last thing she wanted.

Then he began to kiss her breasts, adoring their scented roundness, letting his lips tug softly at her nipples, sending shafts of sensation racing like tiny flames through her restless body.

She found she was lifting herself towards him, mutely begging for the sweet agony of his tongue against the rosy engorged peaks.

Chay sighed again, this time with soft satisfaction, his breath fanning her heated skin as he pleasured her.

He'd released her hands, and now she felt the lingering whisper of his fingers on her body, discovering every curve and angle on their slow downward path. His hands moulded her hipbone, then slid inward to the soft pulsating hollow, where he paused. She was caught, held tantalisingly on some unimagined brink. She tried to say, No, but all that emerged was a tiny sound like a whimper, while that too was stifled by his kiss.

His hand was at the junction of her thighs, stroking the silky triangle of hair, silently teasing her into allowing him the more intimate access he wanted. And she could feel her body melting, the responding rush of scalding heat that welcomed the first devastating glide of his fingers. The breath came sobbing from her lungs as his exploration of her deepened, creating a need—a reaction—that she could not control. Her body was opening for him, demanding him, so that when he moved across her—over her—his hands lifting her hips to meet the burning force of his possession, denial was impossible. It was so right, so totally imperative, that Adrien had no inkling that her inexperienced flesh might resist this initial invasion. The sudden unexpected pain jolted her into a small shocked cry, her eyes dilating as she tried, too late, to push him away from her. He said, 'Adrien?' his voice harsh and urgent, then the bewilderment in his face changed to a kind of horrified comprehension.

He groaned her name again, but this time it was a plea for forgiveness as his driven body, establishing its ownership beyond question or control, was impelled towards the point of no return.

She closed her eyes, pressing a clenched fist against her mouth as, at last, she felt the frenzied spasms tearing him apart, and heard him cry out in a kind of agony.

Then it was over, his body sinking against hers in heavy quietude, the hoarseness of his breathing slowing to normality.

She lay, unmoving, unable to differentiate between the ache of her wrenched body and the sharper pain of disappointment twisting inside her, and a single tear squeezed from under her closed lid and burned its way down her cheek.

She saw him wince, then silently take the corner of the sheet and wipe the tear away. Then he lifted himself away from her, putting space between them on the bed.

There was a long pause, then he said very quietly,

'Why didn't you tell me, Adie?'

T didn't think you'd know.' She bit her lip.

'And I thought it wouldn't matter.'

'But you're wrong,' he said. 'Because it makes one hell of a difference, and in all kinds of ways.'

'I—I don't see how.' She drew a quick, shaky breath. 'This was what we agreed.'

His mouth tightened. T could at least have made it— easier for you.' There was another silence, then he said slowly, 'I assumed, you see, that you'd slept with Mendoza.'

'He said we'd wait.' Her voice trembled. 'He said he wanted a white wedding—and a wedding night that meant something.'

He nodded, his face like a stone. 'And that's what you should have had, Adie.' He sighed harshly. 'Oh, God, what a bloody mess.'

She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him. He was so careful, she thought, not to touch her. Yet she needed to be touched. Held. Comforted—and loved... Dear God. What am I saying? What am I thinking?

She kept her voice expressionless. 'He didn't mean it. He just wanted someone to work on the house for him and keep costs down. He didn't love me—and he didn't want to make love to me either. I see that now.'

'Then we're both marginally wiser than we were an hour ago.' Chay flung off the tangled sheet and swung himself off the bed, causing Adrien to look away hastily. Nothing was ever going to erase the memory of his body, naked against hers, but she didn't need any visual reminders to go with it; He disappeared into the bathroom, reappearing a few minutes later tying the belt of a white towelling robe. He said, 'I'm running you a bath. How badly did I hurt you?'

She tried to smile. 'I'll live.' She paused, her eyes searching his face. 'Chay—it had to happen some time. It's—not important.'

'There we disagree.' He bent and picked up the crumpled peignoir. T was right when I said you looked like a bride.' The grey eyes were chilly. 'I presume you bought this for Piers?'

'Yes.' Adrien lifted her chin. 'But I wore it for you.'

'Strange.' His mouth twisted. 'I only remember you taking it off. I'll go and check your bath.'

'I don't need a bath,' she said. 'But I'd really like to sleep for a while.'

'If that's what you want.' He put the peignoir down on the bed beside her. 'You'd better put this on.'

'To sleep in?' She was bewildered.

'No,' he said. 'To wear back to your own room.'

She stared at him, her heart beating a little faster as she huddled the peignoir around her. 'You—you don't want me to stay here?'

His smile was wintry. T think enough damage has been done already—don't you? Besides, virgin sacrifices have never been to my taste.' He tied the ribbons for her, his fingers impersonal, almost brisk.

'So it's best if you leave the Grange tomorrow.'

She sat very still, staring up at him. 'But—but Chay...' Her voice trembled into silence as she tried to find the right words.

His brows lifted. 'You're concerned you won't be paid if I go back on our deal?'

No, she thought blankly, that hadn't even entered her mind. Her attempt at protest had been on far more complex grounds, which she was still struggling to understand. Which she was frightened to face. She lifted her chin. 'Of course,' she said. 'What else?'

'Well, don't worry, darling.' His tone was almost casual. 'You'll get your money.'

If he'd slapped her face she couldn't have felt more hurt, or more humiliated. She'd expected reassurance, and instead she was faced with rejection. Piers hadn't wanted her, she thought numbly. And now Chay was turning her away too. And suddenly—for some unfathomable reason—she felt as if she was dying inside.

Dear God, she thought, swallowing. What's happening to me?

But she couldn't think about that now. Because the important thing—indeed, the only thing—was to get out of this room somehow, with what little remained of her pride. Before she said something— made some plea—that she would regret bitterly later. Or even broke down and cried like a baby. He mustn't know how I feel, she thought. He must never find out.

From some hidden store of courage she conjured up a smile, and she rose to her feet and straightened her shoulders.

'Thank you,' she said, lightly. 'Somehow that makes it all—almost—worthwhile.' And she walked to the door and went out, without looking back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Adrien walked slowly and steadily to her room, but once the door was closed behind her she collapsed against it, gasping for breath as if she'd just run a marathon.

The pressure of the past week had got to her at last, and she'd gone slightly crazy. That was the only feasible explanation.

She could rationalise until she was blue in the face. She could come up with a whole range of excuses. But the truth was she'd gone to Chay tonight because she'd wanted him. And not just with her body, she admitted bleakly. Her heart and mind had surrendered too.

Even reliving the childhood trauma he'd inflicted on her hadn't deflected her even for a minute. I was never able to remember it before, she thought wonderingly. Not in its entirety. I didn't want to examine the pain he'd caused too closely. So why did I choose to do it—tonight of all nights? Why did I torture myself all over again? It makes no sense.

Yet even with all those memories—all that cause to hate him—she'd gone to him. Offered herself and been taken.

And then sent away.

And that, she thought, was the ultimate act of cruelty. None of the other things he'd done to her even came close.

It was pointless to remind herself that she was now free to leave. That, in essence, she'd beaten him. Because if this was victory, she never wanted to face defeat.

She stripped off the peignoir and threw it, rolled into a ball, to the back of the wardrobe. She never wanted to see it again. Tomorrow it would go in the firebox of the Aga.

Her body felt alien. She was wearing the scent of his skin, and if she was ever to close her eyes in peace again she had to rid herself of it. Along with some even more potent memories.

She'd allowed herself to be haunted by the past for far too long already. Now she would have the remembrance of Chay's hands touching her, the heat of his mouth on her eager flesh, to colour her dreams and twist her waking hours into helpless longing.

She hadn't known it was possible to want someone so badly, she realised. And telling herself that she was just a chronic case of sexual frustration, that any man would have done, was simply self-deception. Because Chay had always been part of her life. He'd been her friend, her enemy, and, tonight, her lover.

It was as if every moment in her existence had been preparing her—leading her up to this. And now it was over.

She stood under the shower, using a body scrub until every inch of her tingled. She towelled herself dry, then put on the old jade bathrobe. Comfort-dressing, she thought, her mouth twisting. She felt too restless to go to bed, and curled up in the armchair, tucking her feet under her, breathing in the faint drift of fragrance from the roses. Trying to calm herself. To make some kind of plan. Her future was settled, she reminded herself. She had her home. The business was safe now, and they could continue to build on their success. And that was what she'd wanted to achieve.

But she'd had to pay an agonising price for her newfound security.

And now she had to consider her future peace of mind, with Chay living almost on her doorstep. Avoiding the Grange physically shouldn't be too difficult, she thought determinedly. True, it stood on the main road out of the village, but there were other routes—slight detours—which she could take, especially at weekends when Chay would be there. That wasn't the problem.

Somehow she had to accept it was no longer part of her life. That everything that had happened to her under its roof, and the man who was responsible for it, belonged to the past. And could not be allowed to matter.

Or she would spend her life thinking of all the

'might have beens'. Which would be intolerable. Unbearable.

She repeated, 'Unbearable,' and only realised she'd spoken aloud when she heard the note of utter desolation in her own voice. She eventually fell asleep towards dawn, and woke, cold and cramped, to the splash of rain against the window.

My God, she thought, catching sight of her little carriage clock. It's nearly ten o'clock.

She dressed hastily, flinging on a black knee-length skirt and a matching long-sleeved blouse, and ran downstairs.

'I'm sorry I'm so late,' she apologised, encountering Mrs. Whitley in the hall.

'Mr. Haddon said you were to have your sleep out, madam.' Mrs. Whitley's eyes were shrewd, assessing Adrien's pale face and heavy eyes. 'What may I get you for breakfast?'

'I—I'm not hungry. Just some coffee, please.'

Adrien hesitated. 'Where is Mr. Haddon?'

'He went out first thing, madam. And he didn't say when he'd be back.' Mrs. Whitley sounded disapproving. 'I'll bring your coffee to the dining room.'

When she did so, Adrien wasn't surprised to find it accompanied by a plate of creamy scrambled eggs and some crisp toast, which she ate obediently because it was marginally less trouble than arguing.

When she'd finished, she got up from the table and wandered to the window, standing irresolute as she watched the driving rain.

'Such a nasty day,' said Mrs. Whitley, bustling in to clear the table. 'I hope the weather improves next weekend for Mr. Haddon's visitors.'

'He's expecting guests?' Adrien turned, surprised.

'Oh, yes, madam. Some business acquaintances, I understand. It's been planned for some time. When Mr. Had-don gives you the final list, we can decide on bedrooms and menus.' She nodded happily, as if she'd just bestowed a longed-for treat, and disappeared.

I should have told her, Adrien thought with a sigh, returning to her contemplation of the rain. I should have warned her that I won't be here. Not that it really mattered, of course, she added drearily. Mrs. Whitley could cope with a whole houseful of people with one hand tied behind her back.

And I, she thought, squaring her shoulders, I shall be living my own life again. And, as it can't start soon enough, I'll begin my packing right now.