More Than a Mistress. Leanne Banks

“If Carly coerced you into dancing with me, let me make myself clear. It isn’t necessary. I’d just as soon you keep your distance.”

      Spinning away from him, Sara headed toward the galley. She’d just reached the hall when her hand was snagged, jerking her to a stop. She knew before turning who was in possession of her hand.

      Daniel tugged her around. “Do you always jump to conclusions on the basis of one word?”

      Sara pulled fruitlessly, glaring at him. “I know what you said about me being a bad influence.”

      “That was a long time ago, and it caught me off guard when Carly sent you to help me with my lunch after I’d burned my hands.”

      Not mollified, Sara pursed her lips. “You didn’t have to insult me.”

      “You didn’t have to dump the soup in my lap either.”

      Sara finally jerked her hand free. “I did not dump it in your lap. You were waving your arms like a madman.”

      His eyes went dark, and the suggestion of a grin tugged at his mouth. “Guess being a madman should disqualify me from pillar-of-the-community status. So, how do you feel about having dinner with a fallen man?”

      Sara blinked, feeling the currents between them shift yet again. “No,” she said instinctively. The word came easily to her. “You’re doing this because Carly put you up to it and—”

      He pressed his index finger over her mouth, stopping her breath with that one touch. “Carly doesn’t have anything to do with this.” He paused only a second, his expression deadly serious. “I’m asking you for me.”

      Sara’s stomach twisted into a knot, and she prayed for him to remove his finger.

      He did, pulling his hand away, studying her. “What do you say?”

      Sara barely held in a sigh of relief. “I say you’re crazy.”

      Daniel frowned. Her response wasn’t what he’d hoped, but Daniel had always favored the direct approach. It was the same way he approached most things in life. Lengthy deliberation followed by swift action. “Sara—”

      “Sara.” Carly’s voice rang out.

      She began backing away. “It’s Carly. Gotta go.” She gave a too-cheery smile. “Goodbye.”

      She was a vanishing blur of brown hair, black velvet and fast-moving shapely legs. At a much slower pace Daniel went back to the main deck, realizing there was quite a bit he didn’t know about Sara.

      His brother Troy strolled up to him. “You ready to go?”

      Daniel looked over the whole room, his gaze catching on the woman who’d occupied too much of his mind lately. Fresh determination surged through him. “Not yet. You might want to ride home with Jarod.” He filched a single red rose from one of the many bouquets around the room, still keeping her in his sight. “I’ll be late tonight.”

      I shouldn’t have worn red.

      Sara berated herself a dozen times as she pushed through the door of her two-bedroom home. On the way to her bedroom, she tossed her sensible black wool coat and leather purse onto the chintz floral sofa, kicked off her flat patent-leather shoes and started working on the zipper to her demure black velvet dress.

      She shimmied out of the dress, threw it on the bed and pushed down her stockings and garter belt. Then she stood in her darkened bedroom wearing nothing but her sinful red silk slip.

      She shouldn’t have worn red.

      Men seemed to sense it. She was convinced they had some kind of sonar when it came to detecting her past. No matter how prim the outer layer was, they seemed to sense the sensual Sara underneath it all, the Sara who enjoyed all kinds of pleasures, from the sensation of velvet, silk, sun and water on her bare skin to the flavors of a succulent rare steak; fresh, yeasty bread; and strawberries dipped in rich, dark chocolate. The Sara who hid over a dozen bottles of perfume underneath her sink and had trouble deciding which to wear because she liked them all.

      Sara pushed back the hair from her face in frustration. Even now, at the age of twenty-seven, she fought a constant battle with herself, torn somewhere between being the quiet, reserved woman who garnered the respect of the community and the sensual one she hid in the privacy of her home. The sensual one had been known to get her into trouble.

      A stab of pain cut through her as she remembered the senator. He’d been such a nice, decent middle-aged man, but so lonely since his wife had been ill. Sara had been his receptionist. Her first job at eighteen, and she’d been thrilled and scared. It all began quite innocently with her working late nights, then having coffee with the senator and other staff at an all-night diner. He’d been like a father figure to her, and God knew she’d never had a father in her life.

      When her apartment building had been destroyed in a fire, the senator found a place for her to live. It had been easier to say yes than no, easier to accept the affection she craved. He gave her a single red rose the day she moved in, and one yes led to another and another and…

      One year later the press found out, and the nice senator blew his brains out.

      Sara’s mind seemed bent on punishing her tonight. The thought of her deceased husband loomed over her like a dark shadow, and still more guilt flooded her. When he’d learned about her past, he’d hated her for it. When he’d died in an automobile accident, he was still hating her.

      Sara shuddered at the memories. Sinking down on her bed, she wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t want to turn on the light. She didn’t want to see herself in the mirror. She needed to let the guilt and shame pass.

      It would have been comforting to have a man hold her during that painful moment. An image of Daniel Pendleton with the strong, gentle hands and broad shoulders seeped through her mind like mist.

      Sara impatiently shook it off and rose from the bed to turn on the light. She was lifting the hem of her slip to strip it off when her doorbell rang. She glanced at her brass alarm clock and frowned. Twelve-thirty. Who in the world could it be at this hour?

      Snatching the ankle-length kimono from the hook on the back of her closet door, she wrapped it around herself, marched to her front door and looked through the peephole.

      Daniel Pendleton. Her heart gave a tiny, involuntary flutter.

      She opened the door, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Is something wrong with Carly?”

      “No.” Daniel looked into Sara’s wary eyes and immediately knew he’d have to temper the Romeo bit. She looked small and vulnerable and mussed in a thoroughly inviting way, but she also looked distrustful. He shoved the rosebud into his pocket and stepped through the doorway. “Mind if I come in?”

      “Well—”

      “I wanted to make sure you got home okay.” He paused, sweeping the living room with a curious glance. His first impressions were of femininity, comfort and privacy. Puffy curtains and pastel miniblinds covered the windows. On the mantel he noticed a lot of candles and a stuffed teddy bear wearing a floppy hat and lace dress. One end table held a bestselling novel, a few women’s magazines and a bottle of nail polish. An image flashed through his mind of Sara wearing the red silk slip as she painted her nails and blew them dry. He could almost feel the warmth of her breath, and just the thought of it made him tug at his starched collar.

      Her coat and purse had been thrown carelessly on the floral sofa, which, in Daniel’s opinion, held too many little pillows and was too small for sleeping. But he could imagine ditching those little pillows, easing Sara into his lap and kissing her until they were both ready for bed.

      He’d trade the lower forty for a peek at her bedroom.

      “I’m fine,” Sara said.

      His gaze automatically went to her. “And we never finished our conversation.”

      Sara looked at him blankly.