His Inexperienced Mistress. Chantelle Shaw

unnecessarily, her mind at once accepting that he was the most sublimely handsome male she had ever seen and rejecting that fact at the same time. He seemed taller and more powerful than she remembered, his lean, muscular physique highlighted by the precise cut of his tailor-made charcoal suit.

      His chestnut hair was long, and lent him an untamed appeal he really didn’t need, framing his olive complexion, flawlessly chiselled jaw and aristocratic nose to perfection. Her gaze skimmed up over the masculine curve of his lips and settled on cold, pale green eyes ringed with grey that were boldly assessing her in return.

      His wide-legged no-nonsense stance set her heartbeat racing, and without thinking she snuck out her tongue to moisten lips that felt dryer than the paper she held between her fingers.

      His eyes narrowed as they followed the movement, and Lily quickly cast her eyes downwards.

      She pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the flash of pain that hammered behind her eyes, and blinked uncomprehendingly when a Mont Blanc pen was thrust in front of her face.

      ‘Hurry up, Honey. I don’t have all day.’

      Lily wanted to remind him that she preferred Lily, but her throat was so tight she could barely swallow, let alone speak.

      She grabbed the pen, flinching as her clumsy fingers collided with his, and scrawled her signature next to where he stabbed at the paper. Before she knew it the pages were whisked away, Tristan had grabbed her tote bag from Marine-man and he was ushering her out through the door with a firm guiding hand in the small of her back.

      Lily stiffened away from the contact and rubbed her arms. He was well over six feet and seemed to dwarf her own five-foot-ten frame.

      ‘If you’re cold you should try wearing more clothing,’ he snapped, hard eyes raking her body as if she were a foul piece of garbage.

      Lily looked down at her white T-shirt, black leggings and black ballet flats.

      ‘Ever heard of a bra, Honey?’ His voice was silky, condescending, and Lily felt her breasts tighten as his gaze rested a little too long on her chest, her nipples firming against the fabric in a way she’d do anything to stop.

      Lily was taken aback by his hostility, and it was all she could do not to cross her arms protectively over her body. She really wasn’t up to dealing with any more animosity right now.

      But she didn’t say that. Instead she stared at the Windsor knot of his red tie and rubbed at the goosebumps that dotted her arms.

      Tristan muttered something under his breath, shrugged out of his jacket, and draped it around her shoulders. She wanted to tell him she was fine, but before she could say anything he reached for her upper arm and propelled her down the long corridor, his clean, masculine scent blanketing her mind like a thick fog.

      Tension bunched her stiff muscles, but she could hardly tell him to slow down when all she wanted to do was get as far away from the airport as possible. When he paused at the entrance to the duty-free hall Lily glanced up, feeling like an errant schoolgirl being dragged around by an enraged parent.

      She tried to loosen his grip, put some distance between them, but he ignored her attempt, tightening his hold before marching her through the throng of passengers. It reminded her of a couple of occasions in the past when he’d stormed into nightclubs and goose-stepped herself and Jordana out. It had been mostly at her stepfather Frank Murphy’s parties, and in hindsight Tristan had done the right thing making them leave at their age, but at the time Lily had been hopping mad.

      She noticed the large steel doors leading to the arrivals hall and breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully Jordana was waiting on the other side, and once through Lily could thank Tristan for his help and bid him farewell until the wedding.

      Her nerves were shot, but the relief that washed through her at the thought of freedom was suddenly cut short as Tristan veered left and led her into one of the small, dimly lit bars that lined the cavernous concourse.

      The bar was long and narrow, with booths lining one wall and a polished wooden bar with red padded bar stools along the other. Except for two business types, deep in conversation, and an elderly gent who looked as if he might tumble into his early-afternoon schooner, the place was empty.

      Lily waited to find out what they were doing, and was surprised when Tristan ordered two whiskys, watching as he glared at the bartender, whose eyes had lingered a little too long in her direction.

      As soon as he’d moved off to get their drinks Tristan turned to her, and Lily nearly recoiled at the feral anger icing his eyes.

      ‘What the hell are you doing back in my sister’s life?’ he demanded, his voice harsh as he lowered it so only she could hear.

      Lily did recoil then and stared at him mutely.

      Six years just seemed to evaporate before her eyes, and they might have been standing in his father’s study again, where he’d accused her of something she hadn’t done and called her a cheap slut.

      Lily’s eyes fell to his sensual mouth, now flattened into a thin line, and she quickly lowered them down the thick column of his tanned neck to rest once again on his silk tie. Looking at his mouth brought that devastating kiss to mind. She instantly reminded herself of his equally devastating rejection of her in an attempt to marshal her body’s unexpected leap of excitement. How could she still feel so quivery over someone who had treated her so appallingly?

      Tristan’s tense silence seemed to envelop her, and she realised he was still waiting for her to respond to his rude question.

      In all her mental imaginings of how this meeting between them would go this had not featured.

      In one scenario she’d imagined they might be able to put the past behind them and become friends. Laugh over her silly teenage crush and his mistaken belief that she had set up the private party that had been splashed all over the internet. In that particular daydream she had raised her hand and said, Please—don’t give it another thought. It’s over. It’s in the past.

      But she didn’t think that would play so well in this situation, and stupidly—so it now seemed—she had forgotten to prepare the whole busted-for-drugs-at-Heathrow scenario.

      How remiss of her!

      Now she had to ad lib, using a brain that wanted to drool over him like a beginner art student viewing her first Rodin nude.

      Only she was no longer an impressionable girl caught in the throes of her first crush, Lily reminded herself firmly. She was a mature woman in charge of her own life. And wasn’t one of her goals on this trip to meet Tristan as an equal? To look at him, talk to him, and put the juvenile attraction that had plagued her so often in the company of other men to bed? Metaphorically speaking, of course.

      ‘I was invited to the wedding,’ she said as politely as possible, given that his harsh question had evoked exactly the opposite response.

      ‘And what an error of judgement that was,’ he sneered, ‘I can’t imagine what my sister was thinking.’

      Lily frowned and glanced at the bartender, pouring whisky into two glasses, so that she wouldn’t have to look at Tristan. Perhaps the best thing at this point would be to apologise for inconveniencing him and leave quick-smart.

      She watched as Tristan picked up his glass and swallowed down the contents with a slight flick of his wrist; his brows drawing together when she made no attempt to do the same.

      ‘Drink it. You look like you need it.’

      ‘What I need is a soft bed,’ she murmured, only realising how he’d taken her innocent comment when his eyebrows arched.

      ‘If that’s an invitation you can forget it,’ he dismissed.

      Invitation!

      Lily expelled a rushed breath, and then inhaled just as hastily, wishing she hadn’t as Tristan’s virile and somehow familiar scent wound its way into her sinuses. She felt the shock of it curl through her body