One Man's Mistress: One Night with His Virgin Mistress / Public Mistress, Private Affair / Mistress Against Her Will

And found herself remembering with odd disquiet the way her pulse had quickened when she’d seen him standing in the doorway. And how her mouth had suddenly dried …

But I was startled, she told herself defensively. He gave me a shock by … suddenly appearing like that—as if he was some kind of Demon King.

On the other hand, he does it all the time, so there’s nothing to get stirred up about.

All the same, she was sharply aware that the sooner she was away from this flat and out of his life altogether, the better it would be for her—personally if not professionally.

And, in spite of the warmth of the kitchen, she realised she was shivering.

CHAPTER SIX

ANOTHER forty minutes passed before the door buzzer signalled the arrival of the final guest.

‘About bloody time,’ Tallie muttered as she lowered the oven temperature yet again. Her chicken dish might indeed be good-tempered enough not to resent being kept waiting. She, however, felt no such obligation.

There was a murmur of conversation in the hall and then a woman’s remembered voice rising effortlessly above it, pitched just right to reach anyone who might be listening, especially in the kitchen. ‘Mark, honey, you’re actually letting this waif you’ve acquired do the cooking? Are you crazy? My God, we’ll be lucky if we don’t all end up in Casualty having our stomachs pumped.’

If there was some way I could arrange for it to happen to you, and the arrogant Mr Benedict, without the other guests being affected, the ambulance would be already on its way, Tallie thought grimly. ‘This waif’ indeed.

‘But I need drinkies first,’ the newcomer added with decisive clarity. ‘And I’ve brought some lovely fizz to celebrate the success of my most recent shopping expedition. Yes, darling, I absolutely insist. A few more minutes won’t matter, for heaven’s sake. You see, I heard this whisper that Maddie Gould wasn’t terribly happy …’

A door closed and the rest of the revelation was lost.

Maddie Gould … Tallie repeated to herself as she took the smoked salmon from the fridge and arranged it carefully on the plates before adding the garnish. Now, why does that name seem familiar?

She was still trying to remember when a voice from the doorway said, ‘Can I carry anything into the dining room?’

Tallie glanced round and stiffened, her eyes widening. Because, for one shocked, ludicrous moment, it seemed to be Gareth standing there smiling at her.

But of course it wasn’t. This man might be the same height, with blond hair cut in a similar, slightly dishevelled style and blue eyes, but there, she realised, the resemblance ceased.

He was built on broader lines than Gareth and his features were pleasant rather than classically handsome.

He said ruefully, ‘Oh, God, I’ve startled you, and that certainly wasn’t the intention. I was lured here by this heavenly smell of cooking.’

Tallie added the final bunch of watercress to the plate in front of her. She said coolly, ‘You’re not worried about food-poisoning?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you heard that?’

‘Wasn’t that the intention?’

He pulled a face. ‘Yes, of course. That’s why I’m here, really—to make sure you haven’t thrown a wobbly and dumped the whole meal in the bin.’ He looked at her solemnly. ‘Promise me you haven’t—not when I’m starving.’

Tallie found she was smiling. ‘No, you’re quite safe.’

‘I’m Justin Brent, by the way,’ he went on. ‘And you’re—Tallie? Is that right?’

‘My full name is Natalie Paget,’ she said. ‘But Tallie will do fine.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ he said, and his own smile warmed he unexpectedly, making her wish she wasn’t flushed from cooking, with untidy hair and still wearing a damned tea towel.

No, she thought. Not Gareth, in spite of the physical resemblance, but someone very different, with kindness as well as charm. Someone she could possibly learn to like, given the opportunity.

‘Let’s take in the starters,’ he added, seizing a couple of plates and starting towards the dining room. ‘Maybe other desperate refugees will realise and join us before I pass out.’

As Tallie followed him in, he paused, looking round the table. ‘Six places? You’re not eating with us?’

‘No, I’m quite definitely below the salt this evening. My own choice entirely,’ she added hastily as his brows rose. ‘I’d already eaten when I volunteered to cook.’

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s awfully generous of you.’

She said stiltedly, ‘Well, Mr Benedict has also been very kind, allowing me to stay here.’

His mouth slid into a grin. ‘And I’d say that response lacks real conviction. But Mark’s an old mate, and if he’s … wary about being used, then it’s fairly understandable.’

‘So I gather,’ she said wryly, then paused as she remembered that her information had come from Mark’s cousin. And that this man she was chatting to was Penny’s—what? Partner? No, that wasn’t it. ‘Current companion’ was the phrase Mark Benedict had used, whatever that meant.

And just being agreeable to the help did not make him available—something she needed to remember unless, of course, she was planning to take a leaf from Josie’s book, which she would not dream of doing. Even if she looked halfway decent.

Your place, she told herself firmly, is back in the kitchen, cooking rice.

She made a business of looking at her watch. ‘Heavens, I must get on. Perhaps you’d tell Mr Benedict that dinner is served.’

As she turned to go, her smile was brief and impersonal. And, she intended, final.

All the same, she found herself hoping, now that the dinner party was actually under way, that it would be Justin who’d bring the used plates from the first course back to the kitchen and collect the platter of chicken, in its thick delectable sauce of tomatoes, peppers, olives, with tiny spicy cubes of Spanish sausage, and the bowl of perfectly fluffy golden rice.

But of course—inevitably—it was Mark Benedict.

He looked at her, brows lifting. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Not a thing,’ she denied too swiftly, angry that she’d allowed even a glimpse of her disappointment to show. She indicated a pair of oven gloves. ‘Be careful, the dishes are very hot.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ His glance was ironic. ‘I thought you’d prefer me to burn myself to the bone.’

She shrugged. ‘But then you might drop something, and I’ve worked too hard to see my food end up on the floor.’

‘I should have known,’ he murmured. He picked up the platter with care, breathing the aroma with lingering appreciation. ‘God, this looks fantastic.’

‘I hope it passes muster.’ She sounded prim, she thought as she busied herself taking the fresh plates from the warming drawer and putting them on the counter top.

Or maybe she was just being wary. It wasn’t a small kitchen by any means, but once again his presence in a room seemed to make it shrink in some inexplicable way, making her feel as if she needed to edge round it, pressing herself flat against the units in order to avoid physical contact with him. Which was absurd.

Yet it was only when he’d finally departed that she felt she could breathe properly again.

She hadn’t used all the wine in her casserole, and she poured the remainder into a glass and took a reviving sip of its cool Italian splendour. In reality, her job was done now, she supposed, but the missing caterers wouldn’t have left the kitchen in a mess with used pots, pans, knives and chopping boards, so she wasn’t planning to do so either.

I owe it to myself, she argued defensively, as she began to load the dishwasher. I want to see the thing through to the end. Everything like clockwork.