Mistress for a Night. Diana Hamilton

Vivienne had taken herself to the far side of the room, flapping her hands in front of her as if to get rid of some unspeakable contamination. ‘I don’t want your nasty virus! And neither does Harold!’

      Harold had merely shrugged, and Georgia could have smacked the pair of them. Couldn’t they see that Jason looked far from well? Didn’t they care?

      ‘I’ll make a hot drink and bring it up for you, shall I?’ Georgia had volunteered, determined to let him know that she, at least, cared about his state of health. ‘Some soup, perhaps?’

      ‘Thanks, poppet.’ He’d smiled for the first time, his eyes brightening momentarily as they rested on her. ‘But I really couldn’t face it. See you in the morning.’ He’d taken the whisky bottle from the drinks tray and walked out of the room, so she hadn’t been able to talk to him then. But she could now.

      She wouldn’t disturb him for long, just explain about the job offer and tell him how she felt about him. She couldn’t put the width of the Atlantic between them if there was the slightest chance he could one day return her feelings.

      If he couldn’t, if friendship was all he could ever offer her, then she’d make a new life for herself in America. The thought of baring her soul to him was scary, but she had to do it. Sue’s parents wouldn’t wait for her decision for ever.

      She was shaking with nervous tension as she slipped down the corridor and into his room.

      He’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on. The coward in her recognised it as a reprieve and she felt herself begin to relax, her breath coming more easily. She knew she should walk out and leave him to his healing sleep, but couldn’t make herself.

      She padded over to the bed, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, only now realising that the in-depth discussion she’d intended they have should have demanded at least the sobriety of a robe to cover the too voluptuous curves which were barely hidden by her short, thin cotton nightie.

      But the night was hot and she hadn’t been thinking straight, her mind rehearsing what she had to say to him over and over again. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He was asleep and she wouldn’t wake him.

      Very carefully, her heart in her mouth, she sat on the edge of the bed. He still looked feverish, sweat gleaming on his olive-toned skin, the sheet tangled around his hips. She could smell the whisky he’d dosed himself with and realised hopelessly that she had to be grateful for the virus, for the alcohol that had knocked him out.

      He was so beautiful. He could have any woman he wanted. So how could she have been crazy enough to hope for one moment that he would want her?

      The sudden film of tears made her eyes sting. She blinked them away and told herself to be grateful for having been saved from a huge humiliation.

      If he’d been awake and she’d come out with all that stuff she would have embarrassed them both; she could see that very clearly now. His past friendship and kindnesses meant only one thing—that he was compassionate enough to care about the plain, over-plump teenager who was like a fish out of water in the opulence of Lytham Court, whose mother plainly showed she didn’t want her around.

      So she would go to New York and make something of her life, but first she would give herself this quiet, secret time with the man she loved with an emotion so intense it made her heart feel heavy and sharp inside her. Just a few more minutes to say her silent goodbyes.

      Tears shimmering on her lashes, she softly, oh, so softly, touched his naked shoulder. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him, but she needed to have the memory of how his skin felt beneath her loving fingers.

      He was burning, feverish. She lifted her hand and laid the backs of her fingers against his brow, where strands of damp, dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, then feathered them gently over his jagged cheekbones, down to the corner of his mouth, and then, because she simply couldn’t stop herself, trailed her hand over the taut muscles of his arm, down to the loosely clenched long bones of his hand, completely absorbed in him.

      And then, in the space of time it took to draw a breath, his eyes opened, his fingers tightened convulsively around hers, drawing her hand up until her palm was splayed against his wide chest and she could feel the rapid, heavy beats of his heart.

      After that there was no time to explain what she was doing in his room as his mouth descended in a bone-melting kiss. No time to think as she drowned giddily in a vortex of passion, his passion and hers, the driven need taking them both by storm.

      She didn’t have to ask if he could ever love her. He had given her the answer.

      She woke in her own bed, but couldn’t remember climbing back into it. Had Jason carried her here? She was filled with the scatty kind of happiness that made her heart soar up to the skies and dance around the sun. Jason’s lovemaking had been more beautiful than anything she could ever have imagined. He couldn’t have been so passionate if he didn’t love her.

      She floated down to breakfast, her head spinning. Today they would talk. There were decisions to be made about New York, although what had happened last night made them academic. Her future was here with the man she loved.

      The elegantly furnished dining room was empty. A glance at her watch told her she was too early. Mrs Moody didn’t serve breakfast before nine-thirty. Her mother and stepfather weren’t early risers.

      She smiled softly, her amber eyes jewel-bright. She would take Jason’s breakfast up on a tray. Juice, toast, honey and coffee. They could talk in privacy. And when she told him she loved him he would tell her he felt the same, and kiss her, and maybe invite her to share his bed, and undress her slowly, and then…

      Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might suffocate, and the heat of desire scorched her skin. She turned quickly, heading for the door and the kitchen. And Jason walked in.

      She couldn’t speak, could only look at him with drowning, love-drenched eyes, one hand flying to her breast to still the wild clamouring of her heart. He looked pale, as if the night had taken the colour from his skin, making his slate-grey eyes darker by contrast, emphasising the lines of strain at the side of his beautiful male mouth.

      He raked his fingers through his soft dark hair, a track Georgia longed to follow with her own fingers. But she knew she shouldn’t be thinking of things like that when he obviously wasn’t well.

      ‘Let me get you something,’ she said, concern in her eyes. ‘Coffee, juice, eggs—anything.’

      But he shook his head, briefly closing his eyes so that the thick dark sweep of his lashes laid sooty crescents above his jutting, harshly masculine cheekbones.

      Then he looked at her, and she saw regret in his eyes, heard it in his voice when he told her, ‘About last night. I’m more sorry than I can say for what happened. I’m fond of you; you know that, Georgia. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.’

      ‘You didn’t!’ she gasped. ‘How could you think that? Last night—’ Her face flamed at the wholly erotic memory, at the vision of the new and totally unexpected world he’d opened up for her. She swallowed convulsively. ‘Last night was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.’

      She ached to go to him, to lean her head against the broad expanse of his chest, but there was something forbidding about his hard features that kept her feet rooted to the carpet. She felt emotional tears sting her eyes again as she protested, ‘Please don’t be sorry about what happened. I can’t bear it. It was all my fault; you know it was.’ And it was her fault; of course it was. She shouldn’t have let it happen. She’d taken advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable.

      ‘No.’ He turned away from her, his hands bunched into the pockets of his narrow-fitting jeans, his shoulders rigid beneath the stone-coloured sweatshirt he was wearing. ‘The blame is mine entirely. I’m eight years older. I should have had more control, dammit! Packed you back to your own room and your teddy bears!’

      ‘Don’t say that—I’m not a child!’ The words were