The Mistresses Collection. Оливия Гейтс

from the hordes throwing themselves at you, you mean?’ she said tartly. She so didn’t want to witness that, thanks.

      ‘That’s right.’ He winked, back to all arrogant. ‘And you know it’s too posh for paparazzi,’ he said in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. ‘The place will be full of the elite, discreet New Yorkers who have no desire to be pictured in any society magazine. There won’t be any hounds there. They’re not allowed.’

      Admittedly she was tempted. But it was still too public. ‘Wouldn’t it contravene the terms of our contract if I went as your date?’

      ‘You’re a real stickler for that, huh?’ He rose onto his knees and placed his palm over his heart. ‘What if I, James Wolfe, do solemnly declare to touch you not?’

      Hmm. Not bad. It helped that he was on his knees—it made her smile. ‘No kissing. No dancing.’

      ‘Not even dancing?’ He looked aghast. ‘Just scintillating conversation?’

      ‘That’s as good as it gets.’

      ‘Then let’s not bother with a “place” this afternoon.’ He stood and started walking. ‘You’ll want to go home and get ready, right?’

      She nodded.

      Turned out James’ idea of getting ready meant aerobic, intimate acts of pleasure lasting nigh on two hours, leaving her not nearly long enough to get ready. In the end she marched him to the shower—using any and all seductive means necessary—and then banished him from the room so she had the personal space to put on her make-up. Not that she needed blusher—her cheeks had the glow that only multiple orgasms could bring.

      Forty minutes later he knocked on the door. ‘Are you ready?’

      As ready as she’d ever be for something so daunting. She gulped in an extra hit of oxygen before opening the door. Then she went giddy.

      ‘You scrub up pretty well.’ She coughed. Understatement. Vast understatement. ‘Total Cary Grant.’

      The black tux fitted him in that way that only bespoke could. It was the most formally dressed she’d seen him and he looked devastatingly debonair.

      ‘And that’s some dress you’re wearing.’ He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, not taking his eyes from her.

      ‘It’s appropriate?’ she asked, anxiously turning towards the mirror to ensure the layers of green silk were sitting properly.

      ‘No.’

      ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Wide-eyed, she spun back to face him.

      He paused, watching the way the skirt flared as she moved. ‘What’s wrong,’ he said slowly, ‘is that I take one look and want to rip it from you. It clings—’

      ‘It’s tarty?’ she all but shrieked in panic.

      ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘No, no, no.’ He reached out, lightly running his hands over her bare shoulders, pausing to toy with the delicate thin straps. ‘It’s not tarty or inappropriate. It’s perfect. It hints at curves... It suggests...’ He stepped closer.

      ‘You can’t do this,’ she said, breathlessly stepping back out of his reach. ‘You’ll ruin my make-up.’

      ‘But you look incredible.’

      ‘That’s very nice. I want to stay incredible.’

      He drew a deep breath and then released it. ‘Then we’d better go.’

      They walked out of the building. Caitlin choked on a laugh as she saw their taxi driver waiting for them. ‘You have this guy permanently on your payroll, don’t you?’

      James just winked.

      His assurances were correct—there were no paparazzi. It was very dignified, discreet and yet opulent. You could almost smell the money in the air. The room sparkled with jewels, silk and satin. But the majority of the people present were over the age of forty.

      ‘Where are your hordes?’ she whispered as he passed her a champagne flute.

      ‘Cougars,’ he whispered back. ‘The scariest of all.’

      He walked over to a very small, elderly woman.

      ‘Peggy, may I introduce you to Caitlin? She’s a friend of the family visiting us from London for a while.’

      Caitlin smiled at the woman, warmed inside by James’ introduction of her. He’d made it clear she wasn’t his ‘date’, knowing how much privacy mattered to her. She appreciated it. And this woman was no octogenarian cougar. They chatted pleasantries for a bit, talking about places Caitlin had visited, Peggy offering advice on where else she should visit. Caitlin relaxed, realising that for the first time she was just ‘Caitlin’—not Hannah’s sister, not Dominic’s ex, not the wild child failed telly diva. She was just herself and this woman had no preconceptions. No judgment. It was liberating.

      ‘I really do like your dress,’ Peggy commented. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking who the designer is?’

      He’d only been half listening to the conversation, but James now tensed as he saw the colour running up under Caitlin’s skin. Why? She looked incredible—the dress fitted her like a glove. Was it from some off the rack chain store and she was worried about admitting that?

      ‘Actually I made it myself,’ she answered, her chin lifting.

      ‘You did?’ he interrupted, startled.

      Caitlin turned to him with a glint in her eye. ‘Well, I did study costume design, James. I ought to be able to make a dress.’

      Well, yeah. He guessed so. But that wasn’t just a dress; in his opinion that was a masterpiece. It fitted her so beautifully, just like— He paused. Realising. All her other dresses? She’d made those too? She was talented.

      Peggy cackled at his obvious surprise and went back to her interrogation of Caitlin. ‘You don’t want to do fashion design?’

      ‘No.’ Caitlin turned back to her. ‘My heart really is in theatre design. Costumes.’

      ‘Have you been to the Met yet?’

      ‘Not yet. But I’ve seen a couple of Broadway shows and the Shakespeare the other night, in the Park.’

      Yeah, he’d known Peggy was a good person to introduce to Caitlin. The woman was a major benefactor of the arts and theatre scene as well as the foundation. She knew everything and everyone of importance to do with it.

      James smiled, relaxing for the first time since they’d got there. He should have invited Caitlin sooner—as soon as she’d agreed to come with him he’d felt better about the event himself. Just knowing she was going to be here—even if they weren’t going to be touching—put something at ease within him.

      ‘Well you must get to the Met,’ Peggy was saying in her inimitable, authoritative way. ‘The opera costumes are works of art. You have to see the detail up close to believe it. If you’d like I could put in a call, get you in there—backstage?’

      Caitlin’s blush was fiery, her eyes alight with excitement. ‘Really?’

      ‘It would be a pleasure. You could spend the day. Are you in New York for long?’

      ‘A month.’

      ‘Then you can spend two days,’ Peggy declared. ‘Now tell me what you thought of that Shakespeare set.’

      James took a step back as Caitlin and Peggy leaned in together, fully engaged in the conversation. He felt as if his tie had been tightened, his whole chest constricted. The reminder of Caitlin’s length of stay grated.

      He watched her holding court with two women now, talking costumes and sets and fashion. Getting info, displaying her knowledge. Talking about some of the things she’d seen already. With him. He felt like interrupting