The Unlikely Mistress. Sharon Kendrick

be necessary. I’ll take up your offer of the bathroom. It’s very…sweet of you. Thank you.’ But ‘sweet’ did not seem an appropriate word to use about Guy Masters—he was far too elementally masculine for that.

      ‘Come this way,’ he said, and they began to walk through the narrow, dark streets of Venice with the slicking sounds of water all around them.

      Sabrina felt the weight of heavy, wet denim chafing uncomfortably against her thighs. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get my clothes dry.’

      ‘Don’t worry. The hotel will think of something.’ Hotels like the Palazzo Regina always did, he thought wryly. Catering for each and every whim of their pampered guests, however bizarre. In life, Guy had realised a long, long time ago, you got what you paid for. And the more you paid, the more impressed the world seemed to be.

      Sabrina was aware of the curious looks being cast in their direction, and couldn’t decide whether that was because she looked half-drowned or because he looked so beautiful. She felt overpoweringly aware of him as he moved with a kind of restrained power by her side, every pore seeming to exude a vital kind of energy. It was as though that magnificent body had imprinted itself indelibly on every single one of her senses and she could feel the incessant pumping of her heart and the rapid little rush of her breathing as they walked.

      ‘How much money was in your purse?’ he asked.

      ‘Only a bit. I’ve left most of it in my hotel safe, along with my tickets.’

      ‘That’s something, I guess. Imagine if you’d come out with your airline tickets.’

      ‘Imagine,’ she said faintly.

      Something in the way she’d said it made him smile. ‘We’re here,’ he announced, stopping in front of a large, impressive façade overlooking the waterfront itself.

      Sabrina screwed her face up in disbelief. ‘Here?’ He was gorgeous, yes, but in his jeans and T-shirt he had seemed just like her—just another tourist. This couldn’t be right, surely? His hotel couldn’t be this central—not unless he was staying in some sort of museum or palace. Which was exactly what it looked like. ‘You’re staying here?’

      Guy heard the incredulity in her voice and sizzled her a glance of mocking query. ‘You think I don’t know the way back to my own hotel?’

      Sabrina compared it to the tiny, dark pensione she was staying in. ‘It looks more like a palace than a hotel!’

      ‘Mmm. I believe it was.’ He glanced down and saw that the walk had removed that ghastly blue tinge from her lips, and smiled. ‘A very long time ago.’

      ‘How long?’

      ‘Fourteenth century, would you believe?’

      ‘Good heavens,’ said Sabrina lightly, and the question came out before she had time to think about it. ‘How on earth can you afford to stay in a place like this?’

      Years of self-preservation against women with dollar signs in their eyes made Guy reply, without missing a beat, ‘I’m lucky,’ he said coolly. ‘The company pays for it. Come on. You’ve started shivering again.’

      As soon as they walked into a lavishly ornate foyer, she heard the faint buzz of comment. One of the men working at the reception desk, who looked handsome enough to be a movie star, fixed Guy Masters with an unctuous smile.

      ‘Sir? I trust you have had an enjoyable morning.’

      ‘Eventful,’ Guy murmured. ‘I’ll just have my key, please, Luigi.’

      ‘Certainly, sir, I’ll have someone—’

      ‘No, please, don’t bother. I’ll see myself up.’

      In the mirror-lined lift, Sabrina saw how wet she really was.

      The water of the lagoon was obviously much dirtier than its colour suggested, because there were tiny spots of mud spattering her T-shirt. And unfortunately there were two damp circles ringing her breasts, drawing attention to the outline of her bra which was embarrassingly visible. And so, too, were her nipples, tight and hot and aching. Turned on by a man she had only just met…

      Appalled by her dark and unwanted thoughts, she quickly crossed her arms and clamped them over her bust. ‘That man at Reception gave me a very funny look.’

      Guy felt a pulse flicker as he stared at her reflection in the mirror, noting the protective body language and working out for himself the reason for it. ‘Well, you must admit you do look pretty spectacular,’ he murmured. Like some glorious nymph who had just emerged from the water.

      ‘Mmmm,’ she agreed. ‘Spectacularly drowned.’

      He narrowed his eyes. Her voice was unusually soft. As soft as her lips. The lift pinged to a halt. ‘Here’s my suite.’

      Suite?

      Sabrina thought of her own small pensione, where she could never find anyone on duty. Like last night, for example, when the water coming from the tap had been nothing more than a dark, brackish trickle. With the aid of her phrasebook, she had been forced to laboriously construct a note to the manager, requesting that he do something about the hot water. What if she’d gone back today, dripping from head to toe in filthy lagoon water, to discover that nothing had been resolved?

      Thank heavens for the chivalrous Guy Masters, she told herself—but she felt a mixture of nerves and excitement as he unlocked the door to his suite.

      He pushed open the door to let her inside and Sabrina had to stifle a small cry of astonishment as she walked into a high-ceilinged sitting room. Because, yes, of course, she’d known that places such as these existed, but it was something so outside her own experience that it was like stepping into a parallel world.

      The room was full of furniture which even an idiot could tell was very old. Antique, in fact. And priceless too, she imagined.

      Sabrina looked around her. The light was muted because all the shutters were closed, but that made the contents of the room stand out even more.

      Silken rugs in jewel-bright colours were scattered on the marble floors, on which stood spindly-legged chairs and tables. There was a faded sofa of crimson and gold and a couple of chairs which matched, all strewn with cushions of the same rich colours. She slowly turned to see an oil painting of a long-dead doge, set against the timeless Venetian backdrop, one of many paintings hung on the crimson walls.

      ‘Oh, but it’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘So beautiful.’

      Guy watched her slow appraisal, her uninhibited pleasure making her look curiously elegant, despite the damp and dirty clothes.

      ‘Isn’t it?’ he said softly, but he wasn’t even looking at the painting.

      And the lack of light was far too intimate, he decided suddenly, striding over to the window to push open the shutters, so the reflected light from the Grand Canal gleamed and glittered back into the room at them.

      A view like that was worth a king’s ransom, thought Sabrina, suddenly feeling as out of place as some scruffy urchin who had come seeking shelter from the storm.

      It brought her quickly to her senses. She wasn’t here to enjoy the view. Or to make small-talk. She had better just clean up and be on her way.

      She cleared her throat. ‘Could you show me—?’

      He turned around, noting the sudden pinkness in her cheeks, the two high spots of colour making her look like some flaxen-plaited doll. ‘Sure. The bathroom’s that door over there.’ He pointed. ‘Take as long as you like. Oh, and throw your wet clothes out and I’ll send them down and have them laundered.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Sabrina was glad to lock the bathroom door behind her and peel off the freezing clothes from her shivering flesh. They smelt so dank!

      The jeans were first, and then the T-shirt, and she dropped the