One Night with His Virgin Mistress. Sara Craven

be eternally grateful.’

      She stood, stricken, remembering low-voiced, rather giggly conversations at school between more worldly-wise friends, admitting that ‘it’ had hurt ‘like hell’ the first time—that, all in all, it had been messy, uncomfortable and incredibly disappointing. And then, the next time—miraculously—had begun to improve.

      But it wouldn’t have been like that with us—with me. I know it…

      The thought came, aching, into her mind, and was instantly dismissed. Because the truth was she didn’t know anything of the sort. And, anyway, the important thing now was to walk away, not crawl.

      She lifted her chin. ‘Well, whoever she was and, believe me, I don’t want to know, my sympathies are entirely with her.’ And she sauntered into her room, closing the door behind her.

      It was, she thought, the last time she’d ever spoken to him. And maybe much of the pain she still felt about him was not so concerned with his preference for Josie—no one, she told herself, could help falling in love, and what she’d witnessed might have been a genuine coup de foudre—but the cruelly dismissive way he’d spoken about her sexual ignorance, as if it was some kind of blight. That it was her own fault that she hadn’t been putting it about since she’d reached the age of consent.

      However, it was impossible to erase him from her mind altogether, because he was still the image of William, her fictional hero, and too deeply entrenched in her imagination to change. Except that William was kind, loyal and tender, and Mariana would have the happy ending she deserved.

      Unlike me, she thought, and sighed swiftly.

      But she couldn’t feel too dispirited for long—not in this lovely room. She loved the entire flat, especially the kitchen, and the wonderful en suite bathroom with its aquamarine tiles, huge power shower and enormous tub. But the office had to be her favourite of all—a big room filled with light and completely fitted out with pale oak furniture.

      It was completely uncluttered, with not a stray scrap of paper in sight. Well, not until she’d arrived, anyway, she thought, wrinkling her nose. It was slightly more lived-in now.

      Nor could she relate the Kit Benedict she’d encountered to all this orderly professionalism. Frankly, it had never occurred to her that working in the wine trade would require him to set up this kind of dedicated workplace at home.

      Unless, like herself, he moonlighted, she thought, which in turn would explain how he could afford the array of suits with designer labels, the expensive shirts and handmade shoes she’d found in the master bedroom’s fitted closets as she’d tried to make space for her own few things.

      But, whatever Kit did in this room, he kept strictly to himself because everything was securely locked up—the desk drawers, the cupboards, the filing cabinets and the bookcases, which seemed, she noted with surprise, to be devoted to mathematics and scientific topics.

      Not that it matters to me, Tallie told herself firmly. Unless it’s illegal and the Metropolitan Police suddenly arrive.

      But that was an unlikely scenario and, in the meantime, she had the use of the desk and the printer, and she provided her own stationery so she had no need or wish to pry any further.

      She got up, stretching, then collected together the completed pages slipping them into the waiting folder before wandering off to the kitchen to put together some pasta carbonara.

      She ate, as usual, from a tray on her lap in the sitting room. There was a dining room across the passage, but she never used it as it was clearly designed for smart dinner parties, not solitary suppers, and she found it a little daunting.

      There was a drama series she wanted to watch on television and, while she was waiting for it to start, she took her plate and fork into the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher along with the utensils she’d used.

      When she got back with her coffee, she found the start of her programme had been slightly delayed by an extended newscast. The situation in the African state of Buleza had deteriorated swiftly over the past few days. The initial coup had been defeated but the rebels had regrouped and a full-scale civil war had broken out. All British nationals had been evacuated from the capital, but there’d been concern over a group of engineers constructing a bridge across the Ubilisi in the north of the country who’d been cut off by the fighting.

      According to the excited tones of the reporter covering the story, the men had now been traced and air-lifted to safety across the border. From there, they would be flown home, and the Foreign Office had a number for concerned relatives to call.

      For once a happy ending, Tallie thought as the signature tune for her programme began and she curled up in her corner of the sofa to enjoy it. And that’s what we all need—more happy endings.

      The last of the groceries safely put away, Tallie straightened, moving her shoulders wearily. Thank goodness that’s over for a while, she thought.

      Shopping was never her favourite pastime at the best of times, and this afternoon the supermarket had been busy and the bus hot and crowded, forcing her to stand with her two heavy bags. To make matters worse, the journey had been held up by a collision between a car and a van. No one had been injured, but both vehicles had been damaged, tempers had been frayed and the police called as a result, so she’d got off and walked the last half mile back to the flat.

      It was a humid, overcast day, as if a storm was threatening, and she felt grimy and frazzled, her hair sticking to her scalp. She’d have a shower before she prepared the salad for her evening meal, she decided with a sigh of anticipation.

      In the bedroom, she chose clean underwear and a fresh pair of cotton trousers with a green scoop-neck top and left them on the bed. She undressed in the bathroom, thrusting her discarded clothing into the laundry basket, then stepped into the shower. She shampooed her hair vigorously and turned the water pressure to full as she rinsed the lather away, before beginning to apply her rose-scented body wash to her skin, smoothing away the remaining weariness and lingering aggravation of the day, then letting the water stream over her, lifting her face, smiling, to its power.

      Then suddenly—shockingly—she became aware that she was no longer alone. Glimpsed a dark shadow, tall and menacing, outside the steamy glass of the cabinet. Felt the gush of cooler air as the sliding doors of the shower were wrenched open and someone—a total stranger—was standing there, staring in at her. A lean pillar of a man, wearing a shirt and trousers in stained and scruffy khaki drill.

      Tallie had a horrified impression of black tousled hair, an unshaven chin, hands clenched aggressively at his sides and dark brows snapping together in furious astonishment as ice-cold green eyes swept over her.

      She shrank back instinctively into the corner, cowering there, her voice cracking as she tried to scream and failed. As her own hands rose in a futile attempt to cover her body—to conceal her nakedness from this…predator, who was turning the worst—the ultimate nightmare into harsh reality. As fear warred with shame under his gaze.

      Where had he come from? Had he been hiding somewhere in the flat, biding his time—choosing his moment? Her mind ran crazily like a rat trapped in a maze. Yet the door had been locked when she’d returned from shopping, and she’d re-locked it behind her. It was the most basic security precaution, and never neglected, so how could he have got in?

      ‘Turn that bloody water off.’ He spoke above its rush, his voice low-pitched and well-modulated, but grim as an Arctic wind. ‘Then, sweetheart, you have precisely one minute to explain who you are and what the hell you’re doing in my flat before I call the police.’

      Ridiculously, the word ‘police’ brought a kind of fleeting reassurance. It wasn’t the kind of threat a rapist or a psychopath would use— was it? she thought desperately, her fingers all thumbs as she forced herself to deal with the shower flow, shivering with panic and burning with embarrassment at the same time. And he’d said ‘my flat’, so what was going on—apart