His Permanent Mistress: Mistress Under Contract. Kate Hardy

was up loud and she was alone.

      Daniel gently shook his half-full glass as he sat on his deck in the warm breeze and looked at the city lights reflected on the water. He wasn’t sleepy. Not even a little bit. The club would be closed now. She’d have gone home for the night. He realised he didn’t even know where her home was. Her CV only had her mobile phone number as her contact. He toyed with the idea of texting her—to make sure the place was locked up tight.

      His phone buzzed—was it thought transference? He answered, body seizing as a female voice said hello. Then his brain clicked on.

      ‘Hi, Lara.’ Oh.

      ‘Is everything at the club OK?’

      ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’

      ‘You get someone good?’

      ‘Yeah.’ Try stunning. Try teasing. Try truly aggravating.

      ‘Many there?’

      ‘A few.’ Honestly he couldn’t really say. His eyes had been on her from the moment he’d walked in. She hadn’t noticed him. He’d had the ‘pleasure’ of watching her flirt with buff guy before he’d made his way to her end of the bar. She’d been right about the attitude and the look—although she hadn’t been head-to-foot black, her top a slash of scarlet. Trust Lucy to break her own uniform rule. He remembered Lara waiting on the end of the call. ‘Quite a few actually. Lots.’

      ‘Are you OK? You sound distanced.’

      ‘Must be the line.’ They made an impressive line-up of bar staff—buff guy, the petite brunette and the tall, tanned curvy one with the brilliant smile. She’d smiled her way through serving her customers and they’d all smiled back. Every one. Even the women. So how come he got it so infrequently? It was as if she’d taken one look at him, decided he was an arrogant jerk and been point-scoring ever since.

      ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’ Lara didn’t sound remotely sorry.

      ‘That’s OK. I can handle it until you do.’ But could he handle his lust for Lucy? Little Miss Smart Mouth—openly antagonistic because she thought he was some stuffed shirt. But her eyes had gone smoky at moments when they’d been physically close—there were sparks there. He wanted to blow on them, and then stamp them out.

      ‘Thanks, Daniel. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

      ‘No problem.’

      He pressed the end button and set his glass down with a snap. If he was going to be awake at this time he might as well be working on his case notes. He glanced at the box on the floor by his feet. No chance. Instead he stood. A walk would help. Clear the mind and make him tired so he’d sleep. He’d walk through town, past the club, make sure it was all shut up and secure.

      There were a few stragglers still on the road but it was largely quiet, peaceful and warm. Despite the couple of mouthfuls of whiskey he’d had he was stone-cold sober. As he neared the club he started to walk that little bit faster—he could hear music. Worse than that, he could hear country music. Well past closing. He got to the door—it was locked and the stairwell light was off. He walked into the middle of the road so he could see up to the windows and into them a little—they were wide open and there was a light on inside. What the hell was going on? Was she staging some sort of lock-in? The music was appalling. Had she turned the place into a line-dancing school? Either way it was being shut down now.

      He shouldn’t have hired her. Never should have done it. He’d been bamboozled by a beautiful body and eyes that begged for him to believe in her.

      Idiot.

      He pulled the keys out of his pocket and inserted them in the lock. She was about to be sacked.

       CHAPTER SIX

       It is essential for you to try things with your own hands

      LUCY was whirling round the floor, arms outstretched, when she heard it. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Inside. Coming up. Fast. She stopped still. Brain spinning. She dashed for the bar and got behind it. Then cursed herself for her stupidity. If he was after cash he’d come straight for the till. She thought about her mobile phone—in her bag in the back room. Useless. Fear slashed through her but she refused to freeze. She had to fight.

      Her mind flickered, eyes hunting for a weapon. Glasses, bottles—weapons which would be used against her. Then she saw it—the postmix—the drink dispenser. She could squirt soda at the intruder and dash for the fire alarm with the seconds that bought her. She lifted the nozzle from its rung and stood square on to the door just as it opened and she saw the manly figure outlined—tall, broad, familiar. Body achingly familiar.

      ‘What the hell are you doing?’ they shouted simultaneously.

      Lucy swore as he advanced and she saw it truly was him. Her heart didn’t know whether to speed up, slow or stop altogether.

      ‘You gave me one hell of a fright.’She couldn’t mute the remains of high-strung panic. Snatching quick, full breaths, she tried to calm. The relief washing through her was as effective at shutting off her brain functionality as the fear had been moments before.

      What was he doing here? Especially looking like that? Angry, dishevelled and so, so hot. He still wore his suit but the jacket and tie were gone now. It was just his white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, tails escaping his trousers, and even rougher stubble on his jaw.

      ‘Well, what are you doing? You should be home by now and this place should be shut up.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to get your precious licence revoked.’

      ‘So what about the licence? It’s dangerous for you to be here alone at this time. You should leave when the others do and go home in a cab.’

      ‘I was sorting the paperwork.’

      ‘Do it tomorrow. With music like that Noise Control will be here any moment.’

      ‘It’s not that loud.’

      ‘No, but it is truly awful.’

      ‘Don’t you like country?’

      ‘Hell, no.’ His glare softened. ‘Just what were you planning on doing with that?’ He nodded towards her hands.

      She remembered she still held the postmix. Devilish temptation called. Not water—not enough power. Cola would stain and the taste brought back horrible memories. It would have to be lemonade. Her fingers flexed. Her hands raised to aim.

      He saw the movement. His eyes narrowed. His mouth opened.

      Before sound emerged, she pressed the button. Frothy lemonade squirted out, hitting him square on the chest. His shirt was soaked in seconds. He stood still, not giving any clue to his reaction. The liquid raced, leaving a translucent path down his chest, fitting the material to him like second skin.

      She stared. ‘Maybe you should revisit the strip-club idea.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Or at least instigate a wet-tee-shirt night. Or wet business shirt.’ She couldn’t stop the huge smile spreading across her features, the burgeoning glow of amusement, the flame of desire, the illicit thrill that she got from his unreadable expression. How was Mr Cool Collected Type A going to handle this?

      She lifted the nozzle again.

      He spoke. ‘You. Dare.’

      Goose-bumps peppered her skin, but her smile still grew. She got him in the hair and face this time.

      And then he moved. Faster than she’d thought possible for such a big guy. He took three paces and vaulted over the bar to where she stood. In a split second he had the postmix out of her hand and held it firm in his and she was pinioned to his side by his spare arm.

      She squirmed. He squeezed—pulling her even