To Claim His Mistress: Mistress at a Price / Mother and Mistress / His Mistress's Secret

I would just be left feeling this appalling—eternal—emptiness, without hope or respite.

She knelt on the floor beside the empty refrigerator, resting her forehead against the chill of its door as she realised, shocked, what she had just allowed herself to admit.

How can I be so sure of this? she asked herself numbly. How can I possibly have come so far, and so quickly, when it’s the last thing on earth I ever wanted to happen? When it’s what I’ve been fighting against, for heaven’s sake.

She gave a small, broken sigh, then got slowly to her feet.

Liam, she thought wretchedly, is not the only one with secrets. Not any more. But mine are going to be so much harder to keep.

Oh, God, I shall have to be so careful—so very careful.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NEARLY a week, Cat thought, her heart lurching painfully, and still not a word from Liam.

I’ll be in touch, he’d said. But he’d made no promises about how soon the contact might be, and the need to see him again, to hear his voice and to touch him, was becoming well-nigh unbearable.

In working hours she was smiling, efficient, and determinedly busy. Even a little driven. If she could have stayed in the office twenty-four hours a day, she’d have been fine, she told herself wryly.

But at home, in the evenings, her comfortable flat became a cage, where she paced restlessly up and down, cooked meals she did not want, read books she did not remember, and watched television programmes she did not see. She was plagued continually by the idea that he’d had second thoughts about their arrangement and decided to abandon it. That one night she’d find a note pushed under her door, telling her so.

She was half tempted to go round to the flat to see if it was still set up in readiness for them, but the possibility of finding it stripped and empty held her in check. She would rather go on hoping, she thought, even when all hope was gone. And she hadn’t reached that point yet.

At other times she wondered if he was keeping her waiting deliberately, bringing her anticipation of their next encounter to a fever pitch. If so, his plan was working brilliantly, she told herself bitterly.

Even with only her memories of his lovemaking to sustain her she was in turmoil, her senses heightened almost to screaming point.

And now here it was, Friday evening, and she had the bottomless pit of the weekend gaping in front of her again. And how pathetic was that? Putting her life on hold, just in case she was summoned.

There were several other options available to her, of course, she thought, frowning. Her father and mother were still in London, after all, and it was time she saw something of them both. Or she could pay her aunt Susan a long overdue visit.

But when she rang the number it was Belinda who answered the phone. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said flatly. ‘Did you want something in particular?’

‘I thought your mother might like some company,’ Cat said. ‘I hadn’t realised you were back from your honeymoon.’

‘Well, you know now.’ Belinda hesitated. ‘And Tony’s spending the weekend here too. I gather he’s feeling a bit raw about you, so I don’t suggest you join us.’

Cat controlled herself with an effort. She said quietly, ‘Thanks for telling me,’ and rang off.

She had no better luck at the Savoy. ‘Miss Carlton is away for the weekend, madam. May we give her a message on her return?’

And the answer-machine was switched on at her father’s Kensington flat.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, remembering too late that he preferred her to call him David. ‘Just touching base. Call me some time.’

She changed into jeans and tee shirt, and began some determined flat-cleaning. She had just sunk down on the sofa, with a cup of coffee, to admire her shining domain, when there was a brisk knock on the door.

Cat started violently, spilling some of the coffee on to her newly vacuumed rug, then crossed the room, her heart thudding, and threw the door wide.

‘So there you are, my pet.’ Her father’s tone was breezy as he strode in. ‘I got your message.’ He kissed her on both cheeks, then held her at arms’ length to examine her critically.

‘Hmm—a little pale for midsummer. You look as if you could do with a break.’

‘Well, all holiday plans are on hold.’ Cat forced a smile, hating herself for feeling disappointed. ‘I—I’m too busy at work just now.’

‘But all alone on Friday evening?’ David Adamson clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘That won’t do, sweetheart.’

‘I’m fine.’ Cat looked past him, but there was no sign of Sharine. ‘Anyway, you seem to be on your own, too.’

‘Temporarily,’ her father returned airily. ‘I’m treating Sharine to a few days at a health farm.’

‘Oh.’ Cat digested this. ‘Is she feeling off-colour?’

‘We’ve been up in Scotland for the past week, and it rained every day. She was not impressed.’ There was a faint dryness in his tone. ‘Have you eaten?’ He handed her a bulging carrier bag. ‘I stopped off at the deli round the corner. There’s chicken Caesar salad, bread, cheese and a peach tart. Oh, and a bottle of Pouilly Fumé.’

‘Wonderful.’ Cat took the bag into the kitchen and began to unpack it. David followed her in, pouring himself a beaker of coffee and leaning against the sink.

‘So why were you in Scotland?’ she asked. ‘You surely haven’t taken up golf—or fishing?’

‘God forbid.’ David gave a smile of pure satisfaction. ‘I’ve been staying with Nevil Beverley and his wife. He’s just finishing his new play, and I’m to play the lead. That’s really why I returned from California.’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I’m going back into the theatre, and Oliver Ingham is directing me. He was staying with Nevil too, and we thrashed the whole thing out.’

Cat’s brows rose. ‘Really?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were totally dedicated to films.’

‘I was.’ Her father shrugged. ‘But it’s good to rethink—change directions occasionally.’

‘Yes,’ Cat said slowly. ‘I suppose it is.’ If it’s not too late, she thought, and bit back a sigh.

‘So, what’s the play about?’ she enquired, as they were eating. ‘I presume it’s a comedy?’

‘Shakespeare.’ David drank some wine. ‘He’s enjoying success as a playwright, and he’s fallen in love with Mary Fitton, who was one of Queen Elizabeth’s maids of honour, and possibly the Dark Lady of the sonnets as well. He has to go back to Stratford to tell his wife Anne Hathaway that their marriage is over.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘But she has other ideas, and he finds it harder to tear himself away than he thought. And then Mary Fitton comes to find him and take him back to London. And they fight for his heart and soul.’

‘Which Mary Fitton wins, presumably?’

‘Neither of them win.’ David smiled at her. ‘Because they both realise that his only real love is the theatre.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a wonderful script, full of poetry and emotion. I can’t wait to start rehearsals.’

Cat took some more salad. ‘So Sharine will be going back to America?’

‘On the contrary.’ David studiously avoided her gaze. ‘She’s going to play Mary Fitton.’

Cat put her fork down. ‘The Dark Lady?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Can she act?’

‘Of course,’ David said stiffly. ‘She has real talent. She read for Oliver and he was most impressed. She’ll wear a wig, naturally, but that’s no problem.’

‘None at all,’ Cat agreed drily. Just as long as you’re not planning to cast her as my stepmother as well, she thought, with an inward grimace. She paused. ‘And who’s playing Anne Hathaway?’

‘Not decided yet.’ David refilled their glasses. ‘Oliver has a few actresses in mind.’ He looked at her, frowning faintly. ‘So you’ll be seeing much more of me from now on.’ He hesitated. ‘The prospect doesn’t seem to have you jumping for joy.’