To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven

their split-up ten years ago, when Cat was still in her early teens, her father and mother had both remarried and divorced twice. And it looked as if they were each planning another danger trip into the rocky shoals of matrimony, although it was anyone’s guess how long this latest foray would last, she thought, grimacing.

      As David Adamson had sauntered in, his trophy blonde on his arm, Cat had found herself detained by her mother, her manicured and polished nails digging painfully into her arm.

      ‘What the hell is your father doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I accepted this invitation on the sole understanding that he would be in California.’

      Cat shrugged, detaching the sleeve of her crêpe de chine jacket from her mother’s grasp. ‘Filming ended early,’ she returned. ‘And he is Uncle Robert’s only brother. Naturally he was going to be here if he could.’

      ‘And with his latest tart, I see.’ Vanessa Carlton gave a small brittle laugh. ‘My God, she’s about your age.’

      ‘I suppose he could say the same of your choice of escort,’ Cat said evenly, trying to ignore the fact that the gentleman in question—tall, bronzed, with perfect teeth that he liked people to know about—was blowing an extravagant kiss at her mother.

      ‘There’s no comparison,’ Vanessa denied indignantly. ‘Gil and I are in love—deeply and sincerely. He says he has always been drawn to older, more sophisticated women. He likes—maturity.’

      Cat’s lips tightened. ‘Really? Then I hope he’s not around when you start throwing things.’

      Vanessa gave her a fulminating look. ‘I admit I’ve made my mistakes,’ she said. ‘But I see now that any other relationships in the past were simply—tragic mistakes. But then,’ she added angrily, ‘you’ve always taken your father’s side.’

      Before Cat could reply her mother had beckoned to Gil and set off determinedly round the room, towing him in her wake.

      Leaving Cat to make her escape through the open French windows. Once outside, she drew a deep, shaking breath. That was one of the hardest things to bear—the constant accusations that she supported one parent more than the other.

      Because it was simply not true. She’d done her best always—always to be even-handed. Often under very difficult circumstances.

      She wished now that she’d turned down the entire invitation to the wedding, and not just Belinda’s reluctant invitation for her to be one of the bridesmaids. At least she’d had the sense to avoid that.

      She couldn’t altogether blame her cousin for the undercurrent of hostility which had always soured their relationship. Belinda, too, was an only child, and had clearly resented Cat’s regular invasion of her family circle, even though she must have been aware there was nowhere else for her to go.

      Even before the divorce David and Vanessa had been missing a lot of the time, either on location or touring in various plays. Although Cat could remember an idyllic year at Stratford, where she’d joined them during her holidays from boarding school. And she had been with them during long runs in West End plays too.

      Their separation and divorce had sent a seismic shock through the acting world, quite apart from the devastating effect on Cat herself.

      There’d always been rows—tantrums, shouting and slammed doors—but followed by equally full-blooded reconciliations.

      That last time, however, there had been no displays of histrionics, just a terrible quietness. And then, as if a switch had been thrown, they’d both plunged feverishly back into their separate careers and new much-vaunted relationships.

      From then on Cat had owed what remained of her childhood stability to Uncle Robert and Aunt Susan. In spite of her problems with Belinda, their big, rambling house had seemed an oasis of security in her shaken world.

      Which had made it even harder to bear, she thought sadly, when she’d spotted her uncle a few months ago at a corner table in a smart London restaurant, exchanging playful forkfuls of food and lingering glances with a much younger woman.

      Perhaps he’d always been more like her father than she’d realised, she told herself with real regret, and this affair with his secretary was not the first time he’d strayed.

      Looking back, she could pinpoint other strains and tensions in the household which she’d been too young to understand. Or maybe she’d simply been too immersed in her own shock and bewilderment at her parents’ parting to care.

      After all, that had been the time when she’d learned about being alone, and the dangers of relying on other people for happiness.

      On today’s performances, she thought, wincing, why would anyone wish to be married—ever? When betrayal and heartbreak seemed to be forever waiting in ambush.

      It’s togetherness that seems to kill the thing off, she told herself broodingly. Maybe familiarity does breed contempt, after all.

      Which was why she’d always retreated from any serious commitment, especially when moving in together had been suggested.

      First you find somewhere to rent together, she thought, and then you get a joint mortgage, to be closely followed by an engagement party, and a trip down the aisle in a meringue like Belinda’s.

      But I can’t do that. I am never, ever going to be caught in that trap. To hitch my wagon to one particular star when all the evidence suggests it doesn’t work.

      Yet, if she was honest, celibacy had no great appeal either.

      I don’t believe in ‘happy ever after’, she thought. But what’s wrong with ‘happy for now’?

      The rest of her life was in order. She had an absorbing career, a terrific flat, and a pleasant social life.

      So surely it should be possible to compromise somehow over the love thing? Find a relationship where she could still maintain a distance—enjoy her own space. And make it clear that it was the here and now that interested her, and not the future.

      There was a faint breeze coming from the water as she reached the lake’s edge. It tousled her pale blonde hair, blowing the silky strands across her face. Impatiently Cat tried to rake them back into their usual layered bob, her attention caught by a moorhen proceeding with her chicks in a sedate convoy towards the reeds.

      Life, she thought, must be so simple for moorhens. She was about to step forward for a better look when somewhere near at hand a man suddenly spoke, breaking into her consciousness.

      ‘I really don’t advise that.’ His voice was low pitched and cool, with a note of amusement in its depths.

      Cat turned sharply, shaken by the realisation that she had unsuspected company, her brows snapping into a frown at having her peace suddenly disturbed.

      No wonder she hadn’t noticed him. Although he was only a few yards away, he was standing half hidden in the shade of a weeping willow, one shoulder propped negligently against its slender trunk.

      As he moved forward, pushing aside the trailing branches, Cat saw that he was tall and lean-hipped. A faded red polo shirt set off powerful shoulders, and his long legs were encased in shabby cream denims.

      His face and forearms were tanned, and his thick dark hair curled slightly, yet he wasn’t handsome in any conventional sense. His high-bridged nose was too thin, and the lids that shaded his grey-green eyes were too heavy for that. But his mouth was well defined and humorous, with a faintly sensual curve to its lower lip.

      Absorbing this, Cat felt jolted by a sudden stab of recognition. Which was ludicrous, she thought, dry-mouthed. Because she’d never seen this man before in her life.

      If I had, she told herself, drawing a deep, unsteady breath, I’d remember it. My God, but I would.

      She realised that he was studying her in turn, his own brows drawn together in faint bewilderment, as if he too was trying to place her in some context.

      She