To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven

matched the colour on her fingernails, unflawed, without the slightest chip. Ironic, she thought, to look so groomed and orderly on the outside and be falling apart inside.

      She drew a harsh breath, then jumped determinedly to her feet. This kind of emotional turmoil was exactly what she wanted to avoid, and the room itself did nothing for her mood.

      Instead of sitting here, moping, she should take positive action.

      She picked up the damp bath sheet and folded it, then replaced it in the bathroom and collected her bag of toiletries, dropping her soap into the wastebin.

      Time for a change there, she told herself, biting her lip as she made a last check that she’d packed everything.

      Her last action was to glance in the mirror, making sure that she didn’t look as wrecked as she felt. Her mouth was still slightly swollen from Liam’s kisses, and there were weary shadows beneath her eyes, but she’d pass, she told herself.

      There was a different receptionist today. Cat placed her key on the desk. ‘I hope the computer’s recovered,’ she said briskly. ‘Because I’d like my bill, please.’

      ‘The computer?’ The girl gave her a puzzled look. ‘Has there been something wrong? No one’s mentioned it to me.’

      ‘Then it must be all right again.’ Cat produced her platinum card, and stood waiting as the receptionist busied herself at the screen.

      She could always enquire about Liam, she thought, touching the tip of her tongue to dry lips. Forget her own rules and find out who he was. Keep it casual, keep it feasible. A magazine he’d lent her, perhaps, which she wanted to return.

      For a moment she found herself regretting the absence of one of those old-fashioned hotel registers, the kind that people used to sign along with their personal details, and private detectives used to consult on the sly when the receptionist’s back was turned. It was all done with cards these days, which was no help at all—least of all to private detectives.

      But what good would it do? she asked herself ironically. She’d be far better off taking a solemn vow to stop beating herself over the head like this.

      The receptionist turned back to her, looking even more bewildered. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Adamson, your bill has already been settled.’

      ‘No,’ Cat said firmly. ‘That can’t be. I tried to pay last night, but the computer was down. I told you.’

      ‘But I assure you it has been paid—in full.’ The girl ran off a copy of the statement and handed it to her. ‘See?’ She was smiling brightly. ‘You don’t owe us a thing.’

      ‘And you don’t understand,’ Cat returned. ‘I haven’t paid it.’

      ‘Well.’ The smile faltered for a moment, then redoubled its efforts. ‘Maybe someone’s treated you to it. After all, you

      were here with yesterday’s wedding party.’

      ‘Yes,’ Cat agreed slowly. ‘That must be it.’

      She was nearly at the door when the girl called to her. ‘Miss Adamson, I’ve just found this note in your pigeonhole. It must have been left while I was on my break.’

      Hotel stationery, Cat thought as she took it. And her name in one angry slash on the envelope.

      Woodenly, she tore it open and extracted the single sheet.

      The message was brief. ‘I don’t usually pay for sex,’ it read. ‘But last night was exceptional.’ And Liam’s initial.

      She restrained an impulse to crumple it into a ball in her hand, or tear it, screaming, into a million pieces.

      ‘Are you all right, Miss Adamson? You look very pale. Not bad news, I hope.’

      Cat started, and began to hastily reassemble the rags of her composure. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, not at all,’ she said, thrusting the note into her bag.

      You need to leave with your head high, she told herself. And you can do it. You have to.

      She looked back at the receptionist, whose smile must surely be making her mouth ache by this time.

      ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was clear and strong. ‘And thank you—for everything.’

      And she walked out into the sunshine, to her waiting car.

      Cat was thankful to find herself back in the office on Monday morning.

      All things considered, it had been a hell of a weekend, and it would be good to put her personal problems on hold and deal with issues she had some chance of solving.

      She had driven back to London without even stopping for lunch—in Richmond or anywhere else. Traffic had been heavy for a Sunday, and by the time she’d reached her flat she’d had a splitting headache, not improved by finding imperious messages from both her parents on her answer-machine, demanding she contact them without delay.

      Later, Cat had thought, pressing the ‘delete’ button. When I’m feeling stronger.

      She’d taken a couple of painkillers, then undressed and had a bath, washing herself from head to foot with almost minute care. When she was dry again she had got into the ancient velour robe which was her equivalent of a comfort blanket then she moulded some kitchen foil into a container and burned Liam’s note, washing the ashes down the sink.

      One lot of memories dealt with, she had told herself. Although the remainder might not be so easily erased.

      She had found a can of vegetable soup in one of the kitchen cupboards, and some cold chicken in the fridge, and put together a scratch meal which she’d eaten doggedly, without any pretence at enjoyment.

      After that she had gone to bed, falling almost immediately into a heavy but restless sleep, fragmented by brief, disturbing dreams.

      ‘Still hung over?’ Andrew, her boss, enquired, brows lifted in amusement when she arrived for the morning conference. ‘Must have been a good wedding.’

      She smiled back calmly. ‘We don’t do things by halves in our family.’

      It was a typical Monday, with decorators going sick, solemn promises on delivery dates for furniture and fittings blithely abandoned, and recently ordered fabrics and carpets suddenly becoming discontinued.

      Cat spent most of the day alternately arguing and cajoling with workmen and suppliers on the phone and by e-mail.

      But her tender to redesign the workspace in an elderly office block on the edge of the City had been successful, and there was a string of enquiries from potential clients to be fielded too.

      By the end of the day she felt sufficiently ahead of the game to return her parents’ calls.

      ‘So lovely to have seen you, darling,’ Vanessa purred. ‘Let’s get together, shall we, for a lovely long chat—girlfriend stuff?’

      That indicated that Gil would not be present, which was one blessing, Cat thought wryly. She said, ‘I had the impression we were mother and daughter.’

      ‘Don’t get technical, my sweet.’ Vanessa’s tone was waspish. ‘Gil says there’s no way I look old enough to have a grown-up daughter.’ She paused. ‘Shall we say Wednesday evening at eight—my treat?’

      Cat sighed silently, but agreed. Presumably the idea of becoming a grandmother had lost its popularity, she thought as she put the phone down. But that, too, was all to the good, she told herself defiantly, fighting the sudden rawness in the pit of her stomach.

      ‘You seemed a little out of sorts on Saturday,’ was her father’s greeting.

      ‘It was hardly the event of the year,’ Cat pointed out drily.

      ‘No.’ David paused. ‘There’s been a development,’ he added heavily. ‘It seems your uncle has moved out of the house and gone to live with his secretary.’

      ‘Oh,