The Mistresses Collection. Оливия Гейтс

was regular sex to keep him happy? But this was vastly different from the wild-oats, different-woman-a-week phase of not that long ago. Different in that this was with the same woman.

      His gut tightened. No, it wasn’t just sex. It was sex with Caitlin. And there was no one in the world like Caitlin. He carried her up to bed, running his hand down her smooth, pale skin, appreciating the way she arched into his touch as he placed her on the mattress. Undeniably pretty, yes, but also smart, spirited. Sassy.

      And sad. It appeared in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. In the moments before he touched her and made her forget everything. Or before he teased her about something and made her laugh. He liked it when she laughed.

      So he ran his fingers down the vee of her dress now, teasing as he unbuttoned it and got her blessedly naked. He pinned her down to kiss her and summon the sighs and smile he found so addictive. He loved that it was so easy.

      Nothing felt as good as her climaxing around him, her cries filling his ears, her hot damp body collapsing as he wrung the last drops of tension from her. She was as eager for abandonment as he, passionately throwing herself into the heat that flared between them. Physical was everything. It wasn’t always fast; sometimes he made it a slow drawn-out tease.

      And it was always pure ecstasy.

       EIGHT

      The sated feeling never stayed. James, himself, never stayed. Not anywhere. Not even in bed. And Caitlin had cottoned on quick.

      ‘Do you never sit on a park bench? Never lie down in the grass?’ she teased as they walked through the Riverside Park after they’d been to the Guggenheim.

      ‘No. I like to keep busy.’ He fobbed her off with a smile.

      ‘You don’t know how to relax?’

      ‘I don’t like being bored.’ He didn’t like lying still. If he wasn’t kept busy, his brain started to replay things he preferred to forget.

      ‘No rest for the wicked?’ she joked.

      ‘That’s right,’ he answered with a smile, but was perfectly serious.

      So for the next few days they stuck with the plan—gallery, park, place and no PDA. They took in an outdoor screening of a classic movie at Bryant Park, rode the Staten Island Ferry past the Statue of Liberty, walked down Wall Street, went to several indie, abstract, out there galleries in Chelsea. They visited memorials and museums, watched musicians in parks, stood by sculptures, went to another Broadway play, lunched in Little Italy, Chinatown, and ate yet more from street vendors, from urban markets, scoffed pancakes in small diners. They explored the flagship stores—from Apple to Lego to Tiffany’s—and the boutiques in the Meatpacking District, Tribeca. He kept them on the schedule—and he was liking it a hell of a lot more than he’d ever thought he would. They saw loads, talked incessantly, laughed often.

      But on the fourth day, Caitlin rebelled.

      ‘My feet hurt,’ she explained.

      She marched to a stand and bought herself an ice cream. ‘You want one?’

      He shook his head. ‘Come on.’

      ‘No,’ Caitlin said bluntly. She was not walking another five miles around a park. It wasn’t that she was unfit or anything, but she just wanted to sit. It was a beautiful, sunny day. She wanted to watch the world go by and relax.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No.’ Passive resistance. That was the way. She took her ice cream and walked onto the spring lawn, selecting a spot far enough away from other people for some privacy—though she still planned to enforce the no PDA rule. It made life fun. ‘You can sit for ten minutes.’ She told him. ‘It’s not that hard.’

      He rolled his eyes. ‘Ten.’

      ‘Maybe twenty—it’s a big ice cream.’ And she proceeded to lick it ve-e-ery slowly.

      He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and flung himself down on the grass beside her. Caitlin ignored him, just kept on licking her ice cream. He turned his head to the side, she knew he was staring at her, willing her to look at him. She wasn’t going to. Ten minutes of doing nothing. How hard could it be?

      She rested back on one hand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the taste of the ice and the fascinating mix of people making the most of the park. So many people. So much to see. And someone so gorgeous to do it all with...

      She glanced down to flash him a quick teasing smile but to her utter astonishment his eyes were shut. Was he asleep? She leaned closer. His face was fully relaxed, his breathing regular, deep, slow. Oh, he was asleep. And gorgeous. Warmth flowed through her—not just the usual ‘I-need-to-jump-him’ warmth, but something else. She sat back, crumbled the last of her cone and tossed it for a pigeon or twenty.

      Holiday fling, Caitlin. Just lust.

      She could remember that, right? Because that was all this could be. But she looked down again, fascinated to see him like this. Almost vulnerable, utterly relaxed. And a little alone. She felt oddly protective of him. She’d known he’d been tired, but he never seemed to want to stop—why was that? Why couldn’t he give himself a day or two to just laze about? He so obviously needed it. He might even enjoy it if he gave himself the chance.

      A kid suddenly bellowed—a sound of despair and outrage. Caitlin glanced up and winced. The poor little girl had dropped her ice cream. Caitlin hoped the indignant wails wouldn’t wake James. But of course they did. His eyes snapped open, that slight edge returned, that tension never seemed to leave him. It was a thread running right through his fabric. Caitlin smiled ruefully, wishing he hadn’t woken and that he’d been able to relax a little longer.

      ‘Hell, I fell asleep?’ Looking sheepish, he sat up. ‘You should have woken me.’

      ‘Don’t worry, you didn’t snore.’

      He didn’t look any more comfortable, if anything he looked more embarrassed. And confused. ‘I never sleep in public places.’

      Coyly amused, she shrugged. ‘Guess you must need it.’

      ‘You think?’ He drew in a deep breath and then released it with a huge sigh. He looked at her and smiled, that winning, slightly wicked smile. ‘I have to go to a gala tonight.’

      She lifted her brows, not sure what he wanted her to say.

      ‘Fundraiser, for the foundation I work for. There’ll be benefactors there. Medical people. All kinds really.’

      She was pondering a benign reply when he spoke again.

      ‘Come with me.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘What if I said please?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Leaving the invite a little late, aren’t you?’ She cocked her head. ‘If it’s tonight.’

      He smiled wryly. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d have something to wear and I didn’t think you’d let me Pretty Woman you.’

      ‘You were right, I wouldn’t,’ she admitted. But his frankness eased one of her reservations.

      ‘Then I decided I didn’t care what you were wearing,’ he continued, ‘so long as you’re there with me. But I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’

      ‘I won’t,’ she said quietly, her breath stolen by the sweetness of his comment. ‘I have something to wear.’ She always packed one glam dress, because you just never knew and because she’d spent hours making it and couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind.

      ‘So you’ll come?’

      She shook her head. It so wouldn’t be wise.

      ‘I