Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure (7 page)

He had almost reached the door when she spoke.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice soft and heavy with sleep.

‘What for?’

‘For having me.’ He heard a breath of drowsy laughter which seemed to caress him in the dark. ‘Not like
that.
I mean, having me to stay. Although…’ There was a pause. ‘Actually…like
that
too…’ Her voice was slowing. She was almost asleep ‘It was the first…time…’

He froze, adrenaline and guilt and remorse hitting him like a tidal wave. ‘The first time?’ He crossed the room again, back to the bedside, where she lay perfectly still.

He reached out a hand, finding the velvet-soft skin of her cheek. ‘The first time, Rachel? You were a virgin?’

She stirred and exhaled—deeply, contentedly. ‘No. But…it was the first time…I’ve ever wanted it.’

She had escaped from Carlos, and in the process she had discovered herself. Maybe she wasn’t the incompetent idiot it had always suited him and her mother to make her out to be. After all, he’d said she was frigid, and he’d certainly been wrong about that…

This particularly enticing train of thought was interrupted by the sudden shrill ring of a telephone, echoing through the silent house. Looking round, Rachel traced it to a table in the entrance hall, and hesitated, not knowing what to do. There was no sign of Orlando—but then might he be in his study and would pick it up there? She walked on a few steps, but the ringing continued in a way that seemed to Rachel to be getting increasingly urgent.

She turned and looked back at the phone nervously. She’d never had to answer the phone for anyone else before. In fact she’d hardly had any need to answer the phone at all…

Courage.

For goodness’ sake—it was a telephone, not an explosive device, she told herself disgustedly and seized the receiver.

‘Hello, Easton Hall?’ Pride suffused her at her new-found competence. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Ohh…?’ It was a woman’s voice, smoky, drawling, surprised. Rachel felt the confidence of a few moments ago evaporate. ‘That’s not Mrs Harper, is it?’

‘N-no.’ Rachel stammered. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Well…’ said the woman, and the short word seemed to crackle with indignation—as if Rachel was personally responsible for Mrs Harper’s absence and had organised it on purpose. ‘Could I speak to Orlando, please?’

‘Oh…I’m sorry but I don’t think he’s here,’ Rachel said faintly. ‘I mean, I’ve only just got up and I haven’t seen—’

‘Got up?’
repeated the voice, in a tone of utter disbelief. ‘I see. In that case I do apologise.’ The woman gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I assumed you were one of Mrs Harper’s helpers…’

She left the sentence hanging, making Rachel feel compelled to rush into an explanation. ‘No—no, I’m just a friend…of…of Orlando’s…’

Rachel winced at the blatant cliché.

‘A
friend
?’

The woman’s voice was suddenly sharp with animosity, and Rachel held her breath, wondering whether she should just put the phone down now, before she incriminated herself even further. There was a long pause, but then the woman at the other end started speaking again, her voice suddenly syrupy with concern.

‘In that case, as you’re a
friend
of Orlando, I wonder if you could maybe just…tell me how he is?

Rachel swallowed, caught off-guard by this change of tack. ‘He’s…fine.’

There was a small sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I know this must sound mad and you don’t know me, but I don’t know who else to ask. How is he
really
? I mean, as a
friend
? Does he seem miserable to you?’

Pieces of the jigsaw were flying into place with a speed that took Rachel’s breath away. And her foolish, naïve happiness along with it. Her throat suddenly felt very dry. ‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘He seems miserable.’

‘Oh, God…what a mess,’ the woman said slowly. Her sexy, lightly accented voice was choked with emotion, and Rachel was ashamed of the strength of her hostility. She wanted to hurl the phone at the wall, as if that could somehow hurt the person at the other end. The person Orlando loved.

‘But thank you,’ continued the woman. ‘It helps to know he’s as unhappy as I am. It’s mad that we’re apart…you’ve told me all I’ve needed to hear to convince me to come back.’

‘I’ll tell him…’ Rachel just managed to mutter through numb lips.

‘No!’ The response was instantaneous, and surprisingly sharp. ‘No. Don’t tell him. Don’t say anything. I’d like to surprise him.’ She gave a breathy, intimate laugh that contained no trace of any unhappiness at all. Only triumph.

Nauseous, Rachel was just replacing the receiver with a shaking hand when the front door was flung open. Orlando stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking out the white glare behind him, snowflakes resting on his dark hair. He came towards her, a sharp line carved between his dark brows.

‘Who was that?’

‘She didn’t give a name,’ Rachel muttered, and jumped as the phone rang again. Orlando snatched it up instantly, his eyes blazing.

‘Arabella?’

Rachel took a few stumbling steps backwards.

So that was it. She really should be grateful. It was far better to know before she made even more of a fool of herself than she had already.

Going into the kitchen, she tried to quell the biting sense of disappointment and hurt that burned in her chest. Last night had come with no promises, she had understood that perfectly, but she had at least wanted to be allowed to believe that for as long as it had lasted it had meant something.

The way he had looked at her—her throat constricted painfully as she remembered the intensity of his stare—the way he’d seemed to look beyond her face and into her soul. Now she understood why.
He hadn’t seen her at all.

He’d seen this Arabella. An image of a dark, exotic supermodel swathed in black satin sheets swam into Rachel’s head as she mindlessly held the sleek designer kettle under the tap. She was just adding scarlet lipstick and a bottle of champagne to the image when she jumped back with a howl, as water sprayed copiously all over her.

Suddenly strong hands relieved her of the kettle and turned off the tap. Dripping and miserable, she looked up into Orlando’s darkly scowling face and felt a further twist of pain.

‘I was just going to have a cup of coffee, and then I’ll go,’ she muttered, not meeting his eye.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Go where?’

He seemed distracted. Distracted and angry. And very cold. She felt her bruised heart shrivel a little.

‘I don’t know, exactly, but obviously I’ll find a hotel or something. I have plenty of money…’

‘No. You’re not going any where.’

Orlando said the words as if it hurt him to speak them. It pretty much did. For the sake of his peace of mind he wanted her gone. For the sake of his conscience he needed her to stay. He wasn’t quite sure what she’d meant by saying she’d never wanted sex before last night, but something about it troubled him deeply.

‘But we agreed…It was just for last night.’

Abruptly Orlando moved away, going to stand at the other side of the kitchen with his back to her in a gesture which told her just as plainly as if he’d spoken the words out loud that as far as he was concerned
last night
was something he didn’t wish to be reminded of.

‘That was the housekeeper’s son on the phone just now. He was ringing to say that Mrs Harper slipped on some ice on her way here this morning and is on her way to hospital now, with a suspected broken ankle and fractured collarbone.’

‘Oh, poor her!’

‘You’re kinder than I am. My first reaction was far less selfless. Today of all bloody days.’

‘The ball…of course.’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t turn round.

He couldn’t bear to look at her this morning, Rachel thought miserably.

‘I want you to stay.’

The words cut through her thoughts, unexpected and shocking.

‘What?’

He sighed, his huge shoulders rising and falling, his head drooping for a moment before he seemed to make a massive effort to conceal his exasperation and repeat the words.

‘I said, I want you to stay.’ He spoke through gritted teeth, with exaggerated patience, as if she were very stupid. ‘I have to work. There’s an incident brewing over border control in the Middle East, and I’m going to be in consultation with Whitehall and the Pentagon for most of the day. I need you…’ He paused to suck in a breath. ‘I need you to help tonight, and with getting everything ready.’

Rachel shook her head in bewilderment, trying to keep a grip on reality. For the briefest second she’d allowed herself to imagine that that pause after
I need you
meant something—that Orlando Winterton was asking her to stay because he wanted her, not because he was short-staffed.

‘I can’t—you know I can’t! I’d be hopeless, Orlando. You know I’m completely impractical. I’d make a mess of it all, and spill red wine down someone’s priceless designer dress or something…’

He spun round to face her, dragging a hand through his hair. His other hand, the bandaged fingers stained with blood, stayed limp at his side, and the sight of that small vulnerability made her heart skip a beat.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped. ‘There’ll be caterers, for God’s sake. I’m not asking you to be a
waitress.
’

The ice in his wintry eyes extinguished her flicker of compassion and left a smoulder of anger. ‘Then what?’ She raised her chin an inch, staring at him defiantly. ‘If you don’t want me to fill in as a waitress, what do you want, Orlando? A stand-in
mistress
?’

She stopped abruptly, heat and colour flooding into her cheeks as the absurdity of the word—of the accusation—sounded in her ears.
Mistress?
She sounded like a prim governess in a Victorian novel.

A smile spread across his face: slow, lazy, dangerously mesmerising.

‘My
mistress
? No. I can assure you that there will be absolutely no need for you to take your duties that far, thank you. Though maybe it’s just as well you mentioned it, so we can get things absolutely straight. I’m asking you to stay on for purely practical purposes, and whatever happened between us last night is completely irrelevant.’

Rachel bit back her gasp of hurt. ‘And what if I don’t want to stay?’

He shrugged, levering himself upright from where he had been lounging with deceptive indifference against the countertop, and took a couple of steps towards her.

‘Then go. As soon as you’ve decided where. I’m asking for your help, not issuing a prison sentence.’

He was throwing her a lifeline. She knew that. Giving her time. So why was she hesitating?

She looked down at her hands. Subconsciously her fingers were stretching and flexing, getting ready for the two hours of practice she’d put in first thing in the morning in her old life. Her life with Carlos. The life she had run away from yesterday, with no thought of where she was going.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and looked up at Orlando with a small, painful smile. Pride was a luxury she simply couldn’t afford at the moment.

‘Of course I’ll stay,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘Thank you. I’ll make myself as useful as I can.’

He nodded curtly, his gaze brushing over her for a second, as cold and fleeting as snowflakes on her face. But then he turned and left the room, and it was like being abandoned in Siberia. Naked.

He ought to be proud of himself, he thought mockingly. For the first time in a year he’d done something selfless. Something altruistic. For the first time in the last twelve miserable, desperate, depressing months he had actually done something
heroic.

And she’d reacted as if he’d asked her to embrace a boa constrictor.

Walking across to the desk, he felt his face contort into a grimace of self-disgust.

She couldn’t wait to leave this morning. She had nowhere to go, but she was still planning to walk out of there. She could hardly boil a kettle, but she’d still decided she’d rather fend for herself than stay with him. Knives of pain shot through his damaged hand as it tightened convulsively into a fist.

Why?

Last night she had been different. He felt a moan of torment form in his throat as he remembered her softness, her compliance…her gratitude, for heaven’s sake. And at the time he’d felt like the most callous bastard who’d ever walked, because he’d known he was going to have to let her down. This last minute role-reversal was unsettling and bewildering.

What had changed?

A thought crept in to the edge of his mind like a cockroach…unpleasant, and impossible to completely destroy.

Arabella.

Apart from his doctors, she was the only living person to know about his sight.

And she’d spoken to Rachel this morning.