The Mistress Scandal. KIM LAWRENCE

MacAllister briefly took the hand she held out but seemed to lose interest almost immediately.

      Considering she’d been expecting to be the subject of a microscopic examination herself, it struck Sophie as ironic that she was being virtually ignored. Perhaps he was lulling her into a false sense of security? A frown pleated her smooth young brow as she looked questioningly towards her sister.

      Alice didn’t notice the look. Sophie thought it was entirely possible her sister had forgotten she was there at all. Then it came to her. Of course—she wasn’t the only one to see the similarity. Poor Alice, she thought compassionately, no wonder she can’t take her eyes off him. It didn’t explain why he couldn’t take his eyes off her, of course … Unless …?

      A speculative light entered her blue eyes to be closely followed by a worried gleam. Alice needed a man, but not one like this! He was just too … just too much everything she decided, examining this spectacular specimen of manhood with a worried expression. According to Greg he didn’t lack female companionship. She’d have to think of a way to casually drop details of his ladykilling reputation into the conversation with Alice.

      ‘Greg’s waiting in the drawing room.’ Gabriel nodded his dark head towards a half-open door.

      Sophie moved forward before turning back uncertainly when Gabriel made no attempt to follow her.

      ‘Aren’t you coming? I thought it was to be …’ she began betrayingly.

      ‘Thumbscrews …?’ Gabriel suggested with an expressive quirk of one dark brow. His wry grin broadened as the young girl blushed. ‘I see my reputation precedes me,’ he murmured drily. ‘We’ll join you later.’

      Heart thudding sickeningly, Alice listened to the awful inevitability of that we. Gabriel MacAlllister was the last person in the world she wanted to be classed as we with. She tried hard to respond to Sophie’s nervous grin as she vanished.

      ‘Would you like to see the garden?’

      Impersonal, polite … No need to panic; polite conversation she could deal with. Sophie hadn’t given away any vital information. He’d have been bound to learn she was a widow eventually if he stayed around the area.

      ‘I believe you have a fine collection of old English roses here,’ she responded stiltedly.

      ‘Have we?’ The offhand shrug of his broad shoulders displayed not a scrap of interest in horticultural heritage as he placed a light but insistent hand against her shoulder-blade. ‘I wouldn’t know. We do have very old English plumbing, though,’ he supplied helpfully. ‘It precedes the building by several centuries. I suspect it came over with William the Conqueror. Charming, if you like cold showers.’

      It wasn’t a question of like, more need she concluded, tearing her eyes from his hawkishly perfect profile. The sweat not absorbed by her light cotton bra had pooled uncomfortably in the rounded hollow between her breasts. The tingling in her nipples made her acutely conscious of the area.

      Alice gave a condescending sniff. When the going got tough, some people headed straight back to their air-conditioning and indoor pools—well, she could hope, couldn’t she?

      ‘Why did you lease the place, then, if it’s s … sub-standard?’

      ‘I didn’t … well, only on Greg’s behalf. There’s a dearth of rentable property around here, and I persuaded him purchasing might be a bit premature. He thinks becoming a householder will give him gravitas and convince your sister of his good intentions.’

      ‘She probably won’t be so impressed if she knows you’re paying the bill.’ Alice was gently panting as she reached a near trot. His long legs were making very few concessions to her less impressive limbs.

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. She struck me as a very sensible sort of girl.’ He came to such an abrupt stop she almost bumped into him.

      Hands outstretched, anticipating a collision, Alice found her palms slapping up against his chest.

      ‘S … sorry,’ she stammered, after a telltale gap of total immobility.

      A gap during which panic and something far more sinister had uncoiled hotly in the pit of her belly. His short-sleeved polo shirt was fine knitted cotton and she could almost feel the texture of the dark curling hair that lightly covered his broad chest.

      Her tingling fingertips felt remarkably reluctant to relinquish the contact as she drew jerkily back.

      ‘Here’ll do, I think.’

      ‘Do for what?’

      He got straight to the point. ‘Why didn’t you tell me on Friday that you were a widow?’

      ‘Why …?’ It wasn’t hard under the circumstances to assume a dumb expression. She felt slow and stupid.

      ‘Like it didn’t come up in the conversation.’ He drawled. His languid tone was not reflected in his face; he looked remarkably angry in a dark, dangerous broody had sort of way. ‘I was slagging the guy off, if you recall.’

      She did. ‘I don’t go around explaining details of my personal life to perfect strangers,’ she replied with studied defiance.

      This angry statement struck Gabriel as being bizarre—under the circumstances. His eyes darkened as some of the personal details he did know about her came to mind—like the tiny oval mole on her left shoulder and the silver appendix scar just below the shapely crest of her right hip.

      ‘Even when you’ve shared your body with that perfect stranger?’ His mobile lips formed a cruel parody of a smile.

      There were perfect strangers and perfect, as in flawless strangers, Alice thought, her eyes reluctantly studying the angular perfection of his lean face. Did he think she was likely to forget?

      ‘That was a long time ago,’ she said in a hushed voice.

      ‘About as long as your husband’s death?’ And was the tragic expression in her wide eyes reserved for that event or sleeping with him?

      Alice’s shoulders hunched forward defensively, but she just shook her head mutely.

      ‘Do I look like him?’ Glancing quickly up, she saw his expression suggested he didn’t much care for this idea. His sharp cheekbones jutted through the tightly stretched smooth olive skin of his face. He had the sort of bone structure that would make a sculptor automatically reach for his chisel.

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Your sister seemed to think …’

      ‘Superficially, perhaps!’ she snapped. ‘You’re the same height, build, and similar colouring.’

      ‘Is that why you were looking at me that night? Because you thought I was him?’ He took hold of her shoulders and Alice looked helplessly up at him.

      ‘For a second,’ she admitted, hoping he’d let the damned subject drop, but not getting her hopes up. He was the sort of person who could extract the last drop of blood from the most uncooperative stone. ‘I suppose I wanted you to be him,’ she reflected, with a frown.

      Didn’t everyone want to go back and say the things they wanted to say—unsay the things they wished they hadn’t? Would she ever forget or forgive herself for those savage sentiments? The last things she’d ever said to Oliver.

      Gabriel’s chest lifted as he inhaled deeply. His expression had grown curiously still.

      ‘How long had you been widowed?’ His eyes were now focused on a point over her head.

      ‘It was the day of the funeral.’

      Gabriel gave a harsh, incredulous gasp before he let go of her shoulders. Alice watched him walk up to a large yew tree. He rubbed one finger slowly down the coarse-textured bark before turning abruptly back to face her.

      ‘You used me.’ It was an incredulous