To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven

thought as she closed the door, is made.

      ‘You’re very tense,’ the masseuse said disapprovingly, her hands working essential oils into Cat’s neck and shoulders.

      ‘I have a lot on my mind,’ Cat returned wryly.

      She’d had a wonderful facial, she’d been manicured, pedicured, and taken a sauna. By this time she should have been totally relaxed and floating, her mind free, looking forward to a night of pleasure. Instead she was as taut as a guitar string, and almost ready to snap.

      I’m heading for disaster, she thought, biting her lip.

      In many ways it might have been more sensible to have spent a normal day at work. At least she would have been forced to concentrate her mind on something apart from the evening ahead.

      Yet here she was, being waxed, plucked, smoothed and scented as if her life depended on it.

      I feel, she thought moodily, like some harem girl who’s been summoned by the Sultan. And I wonder what the Sultan would have said if the harem had started summoning him instead. Probably had the lot of them tied up in sacks and chucked into the Bosphorus. Where, of course, they would have sunk without trace.

      And that’s what I’m risking too. That sooner or later, when all passion’s spent, I’ll be left alone and floundering. And how will I bear it?

      But I mustn’t think like that. It’s the beginning of the affair, not the end. I’m getting what I want, and I should be happy about it.

      ‘You’re clearly under a lot of stress,’ the masseuse told her as they parted. ‘Maybe you should consider having regular treatments.’

      I hope I won’t need them, Cat returned silently, murmuring something non-committal. As she was putting her credit card away, after paying the bill, she heard the clink of the keys in the bottom of her bag. Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens, she repeated silently, as she’d been doing all day. As if there was any real chance of her forgetting.

      She’d planned to go straight home, of course. Told herself that bringing the keys with her had been some kind of mild aberration and was of no importance. But that didn’t explain why she found herself turning right instead of left at the traffic lights, and heading straight for Notting Hill.

      She found Wynsbroke Gardens without difficulty, and managed to squeeze into a parking space some two hundred yards away round the nearest corner.

      She walked back slowly, counting the numbers on the houses until she reached number 53. She simply wanted to look at it, that was all, she told herself in self-justification. Just to see where Liam had chosen for this strange tryst. She hadn’t the slightest intention of going in, of course.

      Number 53 turned out to be a tall house, part of a terrace, with a flight of stone steps leading up to a pillared portico, and narrower stairs going down to a basement.

      There was an entry system by the front door, but there was no name beside the buzzer for Flat 2.

      I’ll try one key, Cat thought. And if it doesn’t fit I’ll walk away. Wait until tonight.

      But the key did fit, and she stepped forward into a tiled hallway. The entrance to the ground floor flat was on her left, and there was another door straight ahead bearing a brass number two on its gleaming surface.

      Once inside, a flight of carpeted stairs led up to yet another door.

      I’m beginning to feel like Bluebeard’s wife, Cat mocked herself, fitting the third key into the lock. Beyond lay a passage with pastel walls and seagrass flooring.

      Cat hesitated momentarily, then turned right, opening the door at the end. She found herself in a large sunlit room, with long windows and a balcony overlooking the communal gardens below.

      The floorboards had been stripped and waxed, and the walls were painted a pale cream. Two deeply cushioned sofas upholstered in dark green flanked a marble fireplace, and a dining area with a table, four chairs and a small sideboard had been created in an alcove at the far end of the room.

      The whole place had that pristine just-decorated look. It was also curiously vacant. Apart from a tray of bottles with some crystal tumblers on the sideboard, there was nothing there. Not a picture on any of the walls, or an ornament on one of the surfaces. Not even a clock on the mantelpiece. Even the furniture looked brand-new, as if no one had ever sat on one of those cushions or eaten a meal at the polished table.

      It was undeniably a beautiful room, Cat thought, yet the effect was almost soulless.

      The main bedroom opened out of the living room. The wide bed had already been made up, Cat realised, her heart missing a beat, and the tailored blue coverlet was turned back to reveal crisp white linen.

      Well, at least the priorities had been dealt with, she thought, her mouth twisting as she noted that soap and towels had been laid out in the gleaming bathroom next door.

      Cat found herself backing out again, almost on tiptoe, as if she’d entered a church in the middle of some service. Absurd, she told herself as she crossed the living room again, deliberately letting her shoes clatter noisily on the wooden floor.

      She found the kitchen at the other end of the passage. It had a full range of fitted units and appliances above and below the granite work surface, but all the drawers and cupboards were unused, and the refrigerator was empty.

      It’s just a very elegant shell, Cat thought bleakly, with no clue about who it might belong to. In fact, it doesn’t look as if anyone’s ever lived here at all, least of all Liam.

      Perhaps he had flats like this across London, she thought, biting her lip. Blank, transitory boxes where he entertained his women.

      No, she told herself abruptly. That’s nonsense. After all, this was all my idea, not his. And I was the one who specified it had to be neutral territory too.

      Well, he’s done me proud. This is about as utilitarian and neutral as it’s possible to get.

      What did I expect, anyway? A heart-shaped bed with black silk sheets and mirrors on the ceiling? A fur rug in front of a blazing fire?

      She sighed. So, it was hardly a love nest, but at least she could make it rather less of an echoing void.

      She took the car up to Notting Hill Gate. In the supermarket she bought staples, like bread, milk and eggs, then added bacon, smoked salmon, fresh raspberries, cream, coffee and a couple of bottles of champagne. She also bought an armful of lilies and carnations, and a tall dark green vase to put them in.

      Back at the flat, she stocked the fridge neatly, then arranged her flowers, which she set in the centre of the dining table. By the time she left their scent was already beginning to permeate through the warm air, making the place a little less bleak.

      But it’s still nothing like home, she thought as she got back in the car—and stopped herself right there with a gasp. Because that was the whole point—wasn’t it?

      And now she simply had to make the best of it, she told herself. And shivered.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE car Liam sent for her was long, dark and powerful, and punctual to the second. Which was just as well, Cat thought as she handed her overnight case to the driver, because her nerves by this time were stretched to screaming point.

      Her chauffeur was a polite, taciturn man, in a neat grey suit with a peaked cap. Cat longed to ask him if he regularly delivered Liam’s women to him, but didn’t dare. In any case, the glass partition between him and the back of the car, where she sat almost on the edge of her seat, remained firmly closed.

      What I really want is someone to take my hand and tell me everything’s going to be all right, she thought, a bubble of near-hysteria rising in her throat. And I’ve never been that naïve. I’m still the Cat that Walks by Herself. I have to be.

      She hadn’t realised how much she was hoping that Liam would be there ahead of her, waiting to take her in his arms, until she unlocked