The Mistress Deception. Susan Napier

      ‘He insulted me first!’ said Rachel shakily, knowing that it was no excuse. She had been thoroughly unprofessional. How many times had she heard David say that to successfully subdue a volatile opponent you had to remain emotionally detached from the situation?

      ‘You don’t understand…his first wife, Leigh, did commit suicide,’ said Merrilyn. ‘They’d only been married a few years…’

      ‘Oh, no…’ Rachel breathed. She closed her eyes, her own spiteful words ringing in her ears, lacerating her conscience.

      ‘You’ve seen the kind of mood he was in, now he’s going to be even worse,’ Merrilyn fretted. ‘I told you this was going to end up a disaster.’

      ‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ said Rachel, with far more confidence than she felt. ‘I’ll go and find him again—you just concentrate on looking after your other guests.’

      ‘But we’re sitting down to dinner soon! How can I concentrate on anything else? It’ll be like having an unexploded bomb at the table!’

      ‘Change the seating. I’m in a suitably obscure corner—put Matthew Riordan next to me.’

      ‘After what just happened—are you kidding? That would really light his fuse!’

      ‘There won’t be any fireworks,’ vowed Rachel grimly. ‘If he won’t co-operate I’ll think of something else, but I won’t let him create a disruption.’

      To Rachel’s relief Merrilyn appeared to accept her assurances although she still looked dubious as she hurried off to resume her hostessing duties.

      Rachel didn’t need a bloodhound to track down her quarry; all she had to do was follow the trail of nervous smiles and negative energy which Matthew Riordan had left scattered in his wake.

      She found him outside, wandering down the terrace steps, having bypassed the glass dangling from his fingers in preference to swigging champagne straight from the bottle. The evening was so warm and humid that stepping from the air-conditioned comfort of the house into the velvety night was like being enveloped by a smothering blanket. The mingled scent of the jasmine which cloaked the walls of the large courtyard below the terrace and the Mexican orange blossom shrubs set in tubs around the kidney-shaped swimming pool was heavy in the air.

      Approaching his brooding back as he prowled restlessly along the edge of the salt-water pool, Rachel decided that the grovelling approach would probably only invite his further contempt.

      ‘Looking for a small dog or a child to kick?’ she asked, and when he swung around to face her she didn’t give him a chance to open his mouth.

      ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that?’ She nodded at the champagne bottle.

      His mouth twisted, the lenses of his glasses reflecting the dancing light from the flaming torches decorating the fluted columns in the courtyard.

      ‘What are you? My conscience?’

      ‘Since you apparently don’t have one of your own, I felt constrained to volunteer,’ she said acerbically.

      ‘Like to live dangerously, do you?’ He prowled back towards her, his voice thick with menace, but Rachel stood her ground. Let him know that she was far more than merely the sum of her curvaceous parts!

      ‘Merrilyn’s afraid that you’re going to get totally smashed and run amok, insulting all her guests and ruining her chances of making it onto the social register.’

      Her shrewdly judged frankness arrested the flaring animosity in his face. ‘So she asked you to stop me?’ he asked incredulously.

      ‘Something like that.’

      He took a long swallow of champagne and slowly licked his lips, taking one final step that brought him close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. ‘You and whose army?’

      Rachel jerked her eyes away from his mouth. It was a highly inconvenient time to notice that his lips were sensuously full, casting a sexy shadow over the intriguing indentation in his chin. ‘I thought I’d start off by appealing to your better nature.’

      ‘You’re so sure I have one? It didn’t sound as if you thought so back in there…’ He jerked his head towards the partying buzz, tilting himself momentarily off balance before quickly adjusting his stance. A tiny slip but a betraying one.

      ‘Back in there I was operating under a slight misapprehension,’ she murmured.

      He cocked his head. ‘Oh, and what was that?’

      ‘Merrilyn told me you were drunk, but I didn’t believe her. I apologise for my stupid mistake.’

      He gave a crack of reluctant laughter. ‘You’re taking a hell of a chance, aren’t you?’

      She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘If you’re going to take it out on anyone, take it out on me. Merrilyn issued her invitation in good faith. She wasn’t to know that you’d have a tiff with your girlfriend and try and drown your sorrows.’

      He paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. ‘Is that what she thinks happened?’

      ‘Well, Cheryl-Ann’s not here, and you are—distinctly the worse for wear, so…’

      She watched him up-end the bottle again, her fingers itching to snatch it away from his lips. But she knew from their earlier encounter that he was a lot stronger than he looked, and stubborn as the devil. Cunning rather than brute force was the best way to handle him.

      ‘Actually it was vice versa,’ he said, catching her frustrated look and defiantly refilling his glass, toasting her with an exaggerated flourish before knocking it back.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘It was because I’d been drinking that Cheryl-Ann refused to come along with me tonight…’

      ‘Oh…’ Rachel was disconcerted by his sudden revelation. Merrilyn had acted as if his behaviour was totally unprecedented, but perhaps he was a closet alcoholic.

      ‘Cheryl-Ann likes everything in life to be pleasant and predictable. Particularly her men.’

      ‘Are there so many of them?’ she asked curiously. ‘I thought you two were a big item.’

      ‘And I thought you didn’t believe everything Merrilyn tells you. More champagne?’ he said, and splashed some into her glass from the carelessly offered bottle. Most of it slopped over the edge and onto her fingers.

      ‘Sorry,’ he said as she sucked in a gasp at the sudden chill. ‘Would you like me to lick it off for you? No free hands.’ He extended his arms wide in explanation, his unbuttoned jacket splitting wide over his snowy pleated shirt-front, now lightly frosted with bubbles.

      ‘No, thank you,’ she said primly, pushing away the unsettling thought of his tongue stroking across her skin. ‘But if you’ll hand me the bottle I’ll pour myself some more—I don’t trust your aim.’

      He laughed again, and tucked the bottle under his arm. ‘I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.’

      She shrugged. ‘It was worth a try. You could be a bit more co-operative.’

      ‘Why should I?’ His mouth turned down, making him look wilful and determined to be difficult. She was reminded that while he seemed preternaturally mature, and commanded a lot of power in his position, exuding an air of intimidating and apparently effortless authority, he was still four years her junior. She should be able to handle him with one hand tied behind her back!

      ‘Well, surely you don’t want people to think that you’re a lush?’ she wheedled.

      ‘I’m rich enough not to have to care what people think,’ he said, with breathtaking arrogance and unfortunate accuracy. ‘But, as it happens, I have none of the usual vices.’

      ‘Just the unusual