Mistress For A Weekend. Susan Napier

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘LET me guess…the former friend who mistakes fashion for style?’ Blake MacLeod murmured, tracking her gaze.

      Nora felt a spurt of spiteful amusement as she turned her eyes squarely back to her companion and his impeccably understated elegance.

      ‘His name is Ryan.’

      ‘Is he important?’ The supercilious tilt of his eyebrows was a masterly put-down.

      Nora smiled brilliantly. ‘Not anymore.’

      She raised her glass to her lips and was dismayed to see her hand tremble.

      It was too much to hope for that the sharp-eyed man she was with wouldn’t notice it, too. His eyes flickered down the slender length of her arm and his face turned to stone. ‘Are you afraid of him?’ he asked quietly.

      ‘Ryan? No, of course not!’ she scorned. He had already done his worst and she had survived.

      ‘Did he beat you?’

      ‘Only at squash—I always creamed him at chess and Scrabble!’ she replied flippantly.

      His expression remained guarded. ‘Then how did you get these?’ he said, lightly touching his fingertips to the fresh bruises on the inside of her forearm, blotchy shadows blooming through the smooth, translucent skin.

      The tiny sizzle that accompanied his touch made her senses scatter. ‘What? Oh…I banged my arm against a doorknob at home this afternoon,’ she recalled reluctantly. It had been the bathroom door she had been backing out of—her eyes screwed shut against the sight of the guilty pair in the bathtub, scrabbling to separate themselves. The sharp jolt of physical pain in her arm had been a welcome distraction from the agony of her disillusionment as Ryan had followed her, dragging a towel around his hips, blustering in self-defensive anger, turning the blame for his behaviour back on to Nora.

      ‘You walked into a door?’ Blake said with blunt scepticism. ‘Do you realise what a stereotypical answer that is?’

      Her eyes widened as she realised that he was seriously concerned that she might be a battered woman. ‘But I really did,’ she protested. ‘I would never let a man get away with being abusive towards me.’

      ‘I thought they looked like fingermarks,’ he murmured, aligning his fingers over the blue-brown smudges.

      ‘Well, they’re not. I have very sensitive skin. Bruises always show up quickly, looking worse than they are.’

      The sight of his lean tanned fingers lying against her skin made her mouth go dry and her body throb with awareness. The contrast between his sinewy brown hand and her delicate paleness seemed starkly erotic. She couldn’t believe that a stranger’s touch could have such a dramatic impact. On the other hand, she had never before opened herself up to the possibility that another man could arouse her with a mere look, a touch…

      She watched as he slowly splayed his hand, gently encircling her arm in a bracelet of warm flesh. She shivered.

      ‘Cold?’ he asked, in a knowing voice that said he knew very well what had caused her reaction.

      Her eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by lashes as she lifted them to meet his gaze. ‘It is rather cool up here.’ She uttered the bald-faced lie in the nature of a challenge.

      His lips and eyebrows quirked. ‘Perhaps the altitude doesn’t suit you.’

      She wished he hadn’t reminded her! ‘Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m more exposed than usual,’ she said, with a hitch of one dappled shoulder.

      ‘Would you like me to put my jacket around you?’ he offered.

      Nora’s hectic emotions translated the private gesture of courtesy into a primitive act of public possession.

      ‘No, you keep it,’ she said huskily. ‘I wouldn’t like you to catch a chill.’

      ‘I don’t think there’s any fear of that.’ His thumb moved on her arm, sliding over the rounded inner curve of her elbow. ‘I’m very warm-blooded.’

      Her own spurted hotly in her veins. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

      ‘And do you always believe everything you’re told?’ he taunted.

      Her pupils contracted to narrow dots, the only sign of her inward flinch. ‘I used to.’ She couldn’t help glancing over to where she had seen Ryan. ‘Now I prefer to rely on more tangible evidence.’

      Blake’s hand left her arm to tilt her head firmly back in his direction, demanding her full attention. ‘Very wise. How hungry are you?’

      She blinked at his non sequitur. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You said you haven’t had dinner and, as it happens, neither have I. What say we blow this joint and find a restaurant that can serve us within the next half-hour?’

      Blow this joint? His mocking slang made it sound invitingly dangerous, with the added bonus of allowing her to avoid any painful encounters with Ryan.

      ‘But what about the party—?’ she stammered, not sure whether he was joking.

      ‘In a crowd this size, one or two less isn’t going to matter.’

      One or two? Did that mean that he intended leaving, with or without Nora? She felt a stab of disappointment, followed by a fresh surge of reckless determination. When she had singled him out in her sights she had had no idea where her flirtation would lead, or how far she was prepared to take her rash experiment. She still didn’t know, but her fear and uncertainty was all part of the intoxicating excitement that jetted through her as she contemplated her next move.

      ‘They might not notice my disappearance, but you’re a lot higher up the scale of importance,’ she felt compelled to point out.

      A world of natural arrogance was expressed in his shrug. ‘I’ve done my duty. I came. Waved the PresCorp flag in the necessary faces. Kissed the birthday girl and gave her a gift. More than enough to satisfy Scotty’s festering social conscience. Now I’m back on my own time.’

      It took her a moment to realise who he meant by ‘Scotty’.

      ‘You only came because Sir Prescott Williams asked you to?’

      ‘The word “ask” implies choice. Prescott is far too shrewd to offer options that won’t deliver his preferred outcome,’ he replied drily. ‘He knows exactly how and where to apply pressure. He’s an expert in getting his own way.’

      ‘Somehow I can’t quite picture you as anyone’s helpless pawn. You don’t look like a man who enjoys taking orders.’

      He threw back the last of his drink and acknowledged her tart remark with an insinuating smile. ‘On the contrary, if I perceive a mutual benefit I can be extremely accommodating.’

      His soft purr hinted at all sorts of intriguing wickedness. ‘Are you saying you’d let me order you around?’ she said, forbidden images swirling up from the unplumbed depths of her mind.

      ‘Well, not here, obviously—I do have my ruthless image to protect,’ he mocked, playing to the shocked curiosity that flared across her face, fascinated by the contradiction between the smouldering passion of those sultry painted eyes and the astringent freshness of her unpredictable personality. It was a long time since Blake had been surprised by anyone or anything. ‘Perhaps I’ll let you order for me in the restaurant, as a start…’

      ‘Restaurant?’ In her flurry of wild imaginings she had forgotten the original question.

      ‘You’d rather wait and eat here?’ He looked down into his empty glass, masking his expression as he mused, ‘Maybe you’re right. Even if you’re not lucky enough to be assigned a window-seat, once everyone sits down you’ll have an uninterrupted view from whichever table you’re at, reminding