The Accidental Mistress (12 page)

‘Shall we nip upstairs and try the dress on? Just in case there’s a last tweak that needs doing. I’ve brought my needle.’ Lizzie tapped her capacious tote bag, in which she’d stowed a basic sewing kit.

Angela glanced dubiously at the oven.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll watch your baking,’ said John, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Have you had lunch yet?’

‘Er … no. I haven’t had time.’

‘Shall I make some while you’re having your fitting? A sandwich, at least?’

Angela looked a bit befuddled, but then succumbed to the smile again. ‘Um, yes … There’s some ham in the fridge … a pack of honey roast, not the whole one for the party … Er, would you like some too? I could make …’

‘Oh no, I’ll make the lunch. You girls nip off upstairs.’ Before either of them could protest, he had his jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his sleeves rolled up, and he was at the sink, pumping the liquid soap dispenser, ready to wash his hands.

‘What a lovely, lovely man!’ exclaimed Angela once they were installed in her pistachio-decorated bedroom, and she was pulling her top off over her head. ‘You’re very lucky, Lizzie … He’s so gorgeous he could be a film star. What a smile.’

‘I know. He is rather lush, isn’t he?’ As she drew the dress out from amongst its tissue paper, Lizzie was acutely aware of the hot glow in her thigh. What would Angela think if she knew the ‘gorgeous man’ was into BDSM? She might be horrified … or she might think him even more gorgeous.

‘How did you two meet?’ asked Angela as her head popped out when the dress slid down over her.

Something in her tone seemed to be asking more than that. How did Lizzie come to be involved with a man so much older, clearly more sophisticated, and loaded with money? There was no way she could tell this good customer of New Again that she’d been pretending to be a whore when she’d met him.

‘Purely by chance, actually. A case of mistaken identity, in the Lawns bar at the Waverley Grange Hotel. We just struck up a conversation, and sort of … clicked.’

‘Lucky you. He’s a bit of a dish.’

‘I know he’s a bit older than me, but I like that. He’s a grown-up. He knows what he’s doing. I feel safe with him.’

Yes, safe. Despite everything. Despite his sexual proclivities and his many secrets. In a short space of time, John had become her rock.

The dress fitted perfectly, and despite Lizzie’s offer to give it another pressing, they decided that hanging it up would deal with any creases. The two women descended the stairs again, and Lizzie was relieved that Angela seemed calmer now, and not so fearful.

The kitchen smelt fabulous. The savoury smell was ten times as strong now, and emanating from a tray of cheesy, pastry-looking things cooling on a tray.

‘Your first batch of nibbles is done,’ announced John, looking pleased with himself, ‘and I’ve put in the next lot. They shouldn’t take long.’ Turning to the kitchen table, he made a flourishing gesture. ‘Lunch is served.’

He’d made a plateful of sandwiches, set out plates, cups and made tea, which was keeping warm under a cosy. Lizzie felt like laughing with delight, to see him so domesticated, but instead she just smiled her thanks at him. Angela looked almost tearful again, but still she smiled as she sank down on to a kitchen chair.

‘Have you had lunch? Please stay and have a bite … Unless you’re dashing off somewhere?’ There was a pleading look in her eyes. She was feeling better, but Lizzie sensed a bit more moral support was needed to shore her up.

‘A bite would be great,’ said John, flashing Lizzie a quick look. He understood.

‘Absolutely,’ she concurred, taking the seat that John drew out for her.

Over their meal, Angela opened up, telling them a bit more of her and her husband’s situation. The backstabbing, the office politics; the precarious financial situation with a standard of living to maintain.

‘I’ve told him he should resign, and try to find something … well, a bit less crappy. I’m happy to go out to work myself. I’ve got secretarial skills … we could manage.’

Lizzie nodded and did her best to look sympathetic, but as they were on their way out, it was John who took Angela’s hand and squeezed it, looking into her eyes.

‘Now, about tonight. I recommend a little nip of gin before they all arrive. Just a drop, to take the edge off. Don’t get legless.’ He grinned, so beautiful and dazzling that Angela’s stress seemed to fade without benefit of alcohol. ‘And all
the time, tell yourself, “I am amazing. I look fabulous. I’m wearing a really great dress”.’ Releasing her hand, he fished in his inner jacket pocket and brought out a business card. ‘And if everything does go pear shaped, get your man to ring this number.’ He jotted a number on the back of the card. ‘It’s my P.A., and he’ll know anyone contacting him on this line is bona fide. I’m about to set up a northern centre of operations in this area, and there might be something for your husband. He’ll have to apply on his merits, of course, but at least this way, he’ll have an inside track.’ He pressed the card into Angela’s hand.

Another woman hopelessly smitten with you, John Smith. Is there anyone you can’t charm and bewitch?

As they left Angela Cox behind, Lizzie thought that unlikely. It would be a steep learning curve, not to be jealous of the ever growing horde of John’s admirers …

Fat chance really, though, when she loved him to distraction!

Once they were on the move again, Lizzie said, ‘That was a kind thing to do … about the job for her husband … and the other stuff.’ She moved close, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Any moment now they’d be playing games again, but she wanted to thank him first, while things were still ‘normal’.

John shrugged. ‘Well, he won’t get a job if he’s not up to scratch. But if he is, then he’ll get a shot. I’ll bring in some of my existing people, but I’d like to make work for people in the area too.’

‘So … this “northern outpost” … what’s brought that on?’

A slow smile played around John’s mouth, and his eyes searched hers. ‘Don’t be naïve, Lizzie. You
know
the answer, well, some of it at least.’

No! Not really? Surely not …

‘Why not?’ he answered her silent question. ‘You’re here, and I want to be where you are, at least some of the time. I’ll still be travelling, so there’ll be some to and fro, but I’d like to have a base in this area.’ His look was steady, challenging.
‘And it’s practical too. I’ve made a lot of acquisitions here in the north, and up in Scotland too. It makes sense …’ A little shadow crossed his face … ‘And this way I’m close to Montcalm too, in case I want to build a few more of those bridges.’

‘Oh, I see.’

But where would he live? Not at the Waverley, surely? And not at Montcalm either. The rapprochement with his aristocratic family was probably still far too fragile, and liable to crumble again, for him to be able to live at their famous stately home.

And then, the light-bulb moment. The thing he was going to show her that was also a place. It must have been clear on her face, because John laughed.

‘Quite right, sharp girl. I’m looking at property. In fact, this afternoon,
we’re
looking at property.’ He did his eyebrow quirk thing, teasing and provocative. ‘In fact, if I’m not mistaken, we’re almost there.’

Lizzie frowned. They were still in Kissley Magna, on the outskirts, at least. What sort of house was there in Kissley Magna for a man like John Smith, billionaire entrepreneur? There were a lot of rich people living here, in the ultra-posh area of the Borough, but there was a big difference between a few local toffs and bigwigs and someone on John’s rarefied level of wealth. He was a bona fide aristocrat too, when all was said and done.

Unless …

Perusing the property websites was one of the fun pastimes she shared with Brent and Shelley when they were bored and there was nothing on the telly. They’d trawl RightMove and Zoopla, doing searches for the most expensive houses in the area, then weave silly fantasies about living in them.
Sometimes they’d even see who could design the most bizarre alterations and extensions.

‘Not Dalethwaite Manor?’ It was one of their recent favourites, and Lizzie’s dream house, because she’d once actually been there. ‘They don’t seem to be able to sell it because they’re asking ridiculous money.’

‘I’ve
got
ridiculous money, sweetheart.’ John grinned, pleased with himself again. ‘And I was hoping you’d look it over with me this afternoon, and give me your considered opinion.’

‘What’s to consider? It’s the most gorgeous house in the area!’

‘There, you’ve helped already. “Gorgeous” sounds like an endorsement to me.’

‘But it’s a honking great manor house, John. It’s like a mini Montcalm, really.’ Once, a couple of years ago, she’d helped out as a temporary waitress at a big garden party, falling half in love with the place, even though she’d never expected to see it again. Fond of all vintage and historical styles, she had a soft spot for Victoriana, and Dalethwaite Manor was a gem of a house from that era. Not exactly ‘honking great’ really, by the standards of John’s ancestral home, but still palatial to a girl who currently shared a modest-sized semi.

But there was no more time to protest. They were pulling up to imposing wrought iron gates set back from the road. It was a bit like the set-up at the Eyes Wide Shut mansion, but not so forbidding. The car slowed to a halt, but a second later, the gates swung open.

‘Before you ask … preferred prospective buyers are sent a remote for the gates, which Jeffrey just activated.’ John smiled, and Lizzie wondered what other privileges ‘preferred’ prospective buyers might be granted.

The limo glided along a long, immaculately manicured drive, flanked by tall, mature trees that must have been planted when the house was first built.

‘“Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again”,’ Lizzie intoned, and peering out, she saw rhododendrons and azaleas, just like at Du Maurier’s fictional house.

‘Not nearly so grim,’ countered John, ‘and no Mrs Danvers either. If I decide to buy, I’ll bring in my own staff, and there’ll be no gorgons with weird obsessions and long black dresses.’

‘You’ve got it all sussed out, then?’

Had he actually already bought the place? And, if so, why did she feel so unsettled over such a fait accompli?

Don’t be idiotic, Lizzie. He doesn’t have to check anything with you first, before he does stuff. It’s not that kind of relationship!

But whether he’d bought it or not, or asked her opinion or not, getting a chance to explore her dream house was still a thrill. There’d been barely any time to look around during that waitressing gig, and the hired help hadn’t been encouraged to go wandering.

‘Pretty much. Come on, let’s explore.’

When they stepped out of the car, John instructed Jeffrey to return in a couple of hours.

‘It’s all ours for the time being,’ he said to Lizzie as they ascended the front steps. ‘I told the agents that I didn’t want anyone hovering over me when I viewed the house. I just want
your
impressions, Lizzie, and I don’t want you to have to be polite because someone is shadowing us while we look around.’ He let them in, stepping back with a grand flourish to allow her to enter, and then quickly deactivated the alarm.

How come you know the key-code off by heart, Mr Smith?

More fishiness …

Dalethwaite was just as magical as it had been at the time of the garden party. It might be Victorian, but there was nothing dark or oppressively cluttered about it. She remembered it as being surprisingly light and airy, and redecoration in the interim had only increased that effect. The décor was contemporary, but it didn’t argue with the nineteenth-century structure; the two had had a harmonious conversation across the years, and the estate agent’s online brochure hadn’t done the renovations justice, by a long shot. Sunshine poured in through windows wherever she turned, and the ambience had a soft quality too; a liveable, easy warmth, despite the luxurious elegance of many of the rooms.

‘I’ve been here before,’ Lizzie finally told John as they entered the gorgeous orangery, a giant conservatory space that was at least as big as the entire ground floor of the house at St Patrick’s Road. ‘There was a big garden party, and I was doing a bit of on and off waitressing for a catering company at the time. It was like being in fairyland, and the guests were so glam in full evening wear and everything.’

‘Now you’re the one who’s glamorous,’ said John, flinging himself down on one of two low, cream-coloured settees that were set facing each other. ‘You look amazingly at home in this room. Like a film star. To the manor born.’

‘Not really …’

‘Yes, really. Don’t be stubborn. False modesty doesn’t become you, Lizzie.’ The words were stern, but his expression was sultry and indulgent. ‘Now come over here and stop drifting around like a supermodel. I had a hellish time in New York, and all I really want to do is touch you.’ He paused, his brilliant blue eyes taking her in from top to toe, making her feel as if she’d been swept by a ray of heat. ‘And to fuck you in every goddamn room in this place. And believe me, there
are a
lot
of rooms.’ He held out his hand, palm up, but it was more a gesture of command than supplication.

Her feet frozen to the spot, Lizzie said, ‘But we’re only viewing the house, John. Someone could come at any minute.’ Her heart raced.

‘I certainly hope so,’ he replied, with a soft, fruity laugh, ‘that’s my intention at the very least. And as I’m feeling generous, I don’t mind if it’s you. Despite the fact I’ve got the most savage hard-on.’

Oh, he certainly had!

Even though she probably looked at John’s groin far more often than was decent, Lizzie hadn’t ogled his crotch for at least several minutes. Surely he hadn’t had that enormous erection a few minutes ago? Although maybe he had, and his jacket had hidden it?

Either way, he was sporting the most sumptuous bulge now.

‘Lizzie.’ Her name was softly spoken; a tantalising warning.

She walked towards him, helpless to resist. He really was the most crazy man. They were only viewing the house, and anyone really could arrive at any moment. Yet still she knew she’d let him do anything to her, anything at all.