Blackmailed Into His Arms. Margaret Mayo

I need a mistress …

       I need a mistress …

       I need a mistress …

      And what bothered her most, what sent her mind careening into confusing, dangerous territory, was that every time those words rumbled through her brain, vivid images were quick to follow.

      She could picture him stripped of that expensive suit, all tanned skin and rippling, corded muscles. Hovering over her as she lay stretched across satin sheets, naked and panting for his touch.

      He was an attractive man—a handsome, virile, mouthwatering man—and she was a flesh and blood woman. No one could blame her for entertaining a fantasy or two about him, especially after he’d invited her to share his bed not five hours before.

      What frightened her was that, instead of being outraged as she was initially, she was now seriously considering it.

      Dropping her briefcase at the base of the coatrack just inside the front door, she kicked off her shoes and gave a sigh of relief as she wiggled her toes in freedom. She didn’t usually wear such high heels to work, but the red sling-backs went best with her favorite power outfit, and she’d needed all the self-confidence she could muster to make her way to Ramsey Corporation to face Chase Ramsey himself.

      In her stocking feet, she padded across the highly waxed parquet floor of the wide foyer, pausing for a moment to flip through the pile of mail on the table at the base of the steps.

      She’d lived in this house in Gabriel’s Crossing all her life, but lately had begun to feel uncomfortable and out of place. Maybe because it wasn’t so much a house as a mansion, looking like something out of Gone with the Wind. There were giant Ionic columns out front; a wide, curved staircase directly across from the front door leading to the second-story; and balconies at the back overlooking several acres of beautiful Texas landscape.

      Her father had had it built when Sanchez Restaurant Supply first began to turn a decent profit, and Elena had long suspected the ostentatious design was in part the home her parents had always dreamed of living in, and part proof to anyone who doubted that a first-generation Mexican-American could not only do well for himself and his family, but do extremely well.

      And until a few years ago, she’d loved it here. As a teenager, she’d considered it another status symbol to impress her friends, and she’d taken every opportunity to have sleepovers or pool parties.

      Now, though, without her mother to fill the house with her own brand of love and laughter, the house felt somewhat empty and much too large.

      It was time, Elena knew, to start thinking about moving out. She should have done so years ago, but first her mother had been sick, and then her father had needed her.

      Her sister, Alandra, had stuck around for the same reason.

      Pulling out the letters and magazines with her name on them, Elena started up the stairs and headed for her room. All she wanted was to climb out of her clothes and sink into a nice hot bubble bath. She would light a few candles, turn on some soft classical music, and maybe even pour a glass of wine to sip while she floated away and did her best to forget Chase’s troubling proposition.

      Halfway down the hall, Elena knew it might be awhile before she could be alone with her exhaustion and jumbled thoughts. Her sister’s choice of music—loud, blaring rock and roll—vibrated through her closed bedroom door, and Elena could hear Alandra’s voice singing along.

      She was about to pad by, sneak into her own room a few doors down and attempt to block out the thrumming beat of drums and a bass guitar, when Alandra’s door opened and she stepped out in nothing more than a pale pink chemise-style slip and black stockings.

      Both women jumped slightly in surprise, then Alandra threw her arms wide and rolled her eyes in relief.

      “Oh, Elena,” she called over the volume of the music, which was even louder with the door open, “I’m so glad you’re home. I was about to go downstairs and ask Connie what she thinks of my outfit, but I value your opinion more.”

      She waved a hand, inviting Elena in, as she moved across the lushly carpeted floor and turned off the stereo. The sudden silence was almost deafening, but Elena appreciated the gesture; her sister knew how much the loud music bothered her. At a lower volume, it was almost tolerable.

      “I’ve got a dinner in an hour. We’re trying to raise money for a battered women’s shelter. I’m not in charge this time, thank heavens, but I still want to look good.”

      While Elena perched on the end of her sister’s canopied princess bed, Alandra went to the closet and pulled out two dresses on padded hangers.

      “Which of these do you like best?” she asked, holding one and then the other in front of her tall, slim body.

      Alandra Sanchez was, quite simply, gorgeous. Olive skin, as clear and smooth as a baby’s bottom, and an hourglass figure were her shining glories. But she’d also been blessed with a pair of traffic-stopping dark brown, almond-shape eyes.

      Elena’s only consolation to being the less attractive sister was that everyone said they looked so much alike, she knew she wasn’t exactly an ugly duckling herself.

      It also helped that Alandra was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for someone, and the more they needed, the more she was willing to give. Personally, financially, it didn’t matter.

      She attended four or five fund-raising dinners a week, just like the one she was getting ready for now, and just as many lunches. She belonged to every “good cause” organization in the state, a few across the country, and a few more internationally: battered women and kids, underprivileged children, life-saving medical research, save the whales, save the wild mustangs, save shelter cats and dogs from euthanasia.

      Alandra’s greatest talent was in convincing others to give both time and money to her many worthy causes. Just being around her seemed to make everyone else care more—and sometimes feel the slightest bit guilty for not feeling so before she cornered them.

      One side of Elena’s mouth curved with pride. Her little sister could charm the scales off a snake and have the naked reptile thanking her afterward.

      “This one?” Alandra asked, breaking into Elena’s thoughts and holding up a sleek black tube dress for her perusal. Then she switched hands and held up one in pale pink with black trim, reminiscent of the Jackie O era.

      In the black one, Alandra would be a knockout. Men would be drooling and falling at her feet. In the pink one, she’d still get more than her fair share of male attention, but those men would at least stand a chance of paying attention to the dinner speakers and getting interested in the cause.

      “The pink one,” Elena said. “Definitely.”

      Alandra nodded and stuck the black sheath back in the closet. “That’s what I thought, but I needed a second opinion. I’ll save the black one for next week when I need to raise funds for the no-kill animal shelter.”

      She grinned, telling Elena she was well aware of the devastating effect she would have in the other dress.

      With a sigh, Elena pushed to her feet, planning to head to her own room while her sister finished getting dressed.

      “Elena, wait.”

      She turned to find Alandra with her arms in the air, her head only half peeking through the neck of the pink and black dress. The tops of her thighs were visible, showing old-fashioned stockings held up by a sexy black garter belt.

      Her sister gave a little shimmy and the dress slipped the rest of the way down. She sauntered over, turned her back to Elena, and held up the long fall of her straight black hair.

      “Zip me up, and then we’ll talk about what’s bothering you.”

      Elena pulled the zipper up. “Nothing’s bothering me. I’m just tired.”

      Alandra