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

Sara Craven was born in South Devon and grew up surrounded by books in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

Sara has appeared as a contestant on the Channel Four game show Fifteen to One and is also the latest (and last ever) winner of the 1997 Mastermind of Great Britain championship.

Don’t miss Sara Craven’s exciting new novel, The Santangeli Marriage, available in January 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

MISTRESS AT A PRICE

by

Sara Craven

MOTHER AND MISTRESS

by

Kay Thorpe

HIS MISTRESS’S SECRET

by

Alison Fraser

MISTRESS AT A PRICE

by

Sara Craven

PROLOGUE

September

THE bathroom was lit by candles, their flames burning steadily in the warm still air.

She tilted the flask of fragrant oil and added a few drops to the steaming water in the deep tub, drawing a deep, appreciative breath as the smoky scent of lilies reached her.

A glass of chilled white wine was waiting on the small table beside the bath, with a tall, slender vase of freesias. Music was drifting in from the bedroom next door—a sultry Latin beat, quietly and insistently sexy.

Perfect, she thought, pinning her hair into a loose coil on top of her head, then untying the sash of her silk robe and letting it fall to the ground. She stepped into the water, leaning back against the little neck pillow with a brief sigh of satisfaction, letting her whole body relax by inches. Feeling the tensions of the day slowly disappear. To be replaced by a different sort of excitement.

She picked up her wine glass and sipped. Not long to wait now. Only half an hour—forty minutes at the most—to complete this precious ritual, and be waiting—and oh, so ready. She laughed softly in anticipation.

The soap was scented with lilies too. She worked it into a gentle lather and began to apply it to her skin, taking her time, her senses tingling in anticipation of the moment when other hands would touch her body—other fingers caress her sensitised flesh.

She soaped one smooth, slender leg and then the other, lifting each of them clear out of the water and surveying them critically, admiring the pearly sheen of the polish on her toenails.

Her belly was as flat as she could wish, and her hips were slim but gently rounded. All in all, she was in good shape.

She was taking better care of her body these days, she reminded herself. She ate sensibly and went regularly to the gym.

All I ever needed, she thought, slanting a secret smile, was the right motivation.

‘You look terrific,’ a male colleague had remarked over lunch, his eyes appraising. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in love.’

‘I won’t,’ she’d retorted crisply. ‘Because I’m not.’

She wondered now what he’d have said if she’d told him the truth. Let him in on her secret night-times—this hedonistic, sensual bargain that gave her all the pleasure of love but none of the pain.

Yet there might eventually be pain, she supposed. If one of them decided it was time to part before the other was ready.

But that wasn’t a thought that need trouble her tonight. Not on the very brink of his arrival.

She cupped water in her hands and poured it over her shoulders, letting it cascade down her taut breasts. Watching the droplets clustering on her rosy nipples. Feeling the breath catch in her throat as she imagined his mouth capturing them.

Not long now, she told herself, and, as if on cue, her mobile phone rang.

Her mouth curved in delight as she checked the caller.

‘Welcome back,’ she said softly, her tone faintly teasing. ‘You seem to have been away for ever.’

She leaned back, her smile widening as she listened. ‘You’ll be here in twenty minutes? That’s terrific.’

She paused, then added huskily, ‘But hurry—please. Because I’m waiting for you…’

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a beautiful day for a wedding, Cat Adamson thought as she descended the steps of the hotel terrace and began to walk slowly across the lawns towards the lake.

That was, of course, if you liked weddings, which Cat most assuredly did not. And her cousin Belinda’s nuptials were priming themselves to head the list as the worst ever.

What a relief, she told herself wryly, to breathe fresh air for a while instead of the violent clash of expensive designer scents. And how wonderful to hear actual birdsong instead of the magpie clamour of high-pitched voices, interspersed with the boom of male conversation and the intrusion of over-loud laughter.

No one, she thought, had noticed her leave the reception.

Not the bride, her eyes narrowing to suspicious slits as she watched Freddie, her new husband, chat up the chief bridesmaid with far too much enjoyment.

Not the bride’s father, Cat’s Uncle Robert, who had earlier made an emotional speech on the sanctity of marriage, regardless of the fact that he’d been having an affair with his secretary for the past year. Nor her much loved Aunt Susan, who’d stood beside him like a statue throughout his remarks, staring down at the floor, her expression unreadable.

And certainly not Cat’s own parents, who had both arrived, to the excitement of the other guests, with their latest in a long line of alternative partners, and who were stonily pretending to ignore each other from opposite ends of the room.

A happy state of affairs which could, however, change at any moment.

When last seen, her father had been tight-lipped and her mother had had bright spots of colour in her face and been tapping her foot. Not good signs.

But then, as Cat knew to her cost, they were both professional actors with volatile personalities, and there were times when any stage would do. And any audience.

She could remember school prize-givings and sports days which had left her shaking with tension, as well as a really hideous scene at her eighteenth birthday party.

So why should their only niece’s wedding be spared?

Since their split-up ten years ago, when Cat was still in her early teens, her father and mother had both remarried and divorced twice. And it looked as if they were each planning another danger trip into the rocky shoals of matrimony, although it was anyone’s guess how long this latest foray would last, she thought, grimacing.

As David Adamson had sauntered in, his trophy blonde on his arm, Cat had found herself detained by her mother, her manicured and polished nails digging painfully into her arm.

‘What the hell is your father doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I accepted this invitation on the sole understanding that he would be in California.’

Cat shrugged, detaching the sleeve of her crêpe de chine jacket from her mother’s grasp. ‘Filming ended early,’ she returned. ‘And he is Uncle Robert’s only brother. Naturally he was going to be here if he could.’

‘And with his latest tart, I see.’ Vanessa Carlton gave a small brittle laugh. ‘My God, she’s about your age.’

‘I suppose he could say the same of your choice of escort,’ Cat said evenly, trying to ignore the fact that the gentleman in question—tall, bronzed, with perfect teeth that he liked people to know about—was blowing an extravagant kiss at her mother.

‘There’s no comparison,’ Vanessa denied indignantly. ‘Gil and I are in love—deeply and sincerely. He says he has always been drawn to older, more sophisticated women. He likes—maturity.’

Cat’s lips tightened. ‘Really? Then I hope he’s not around when you start throwing things.’

Vanessa gave her a fulminating look. ‘I admit I’ve made my mistakes,’ she said. ‘But I see now that any other relationships in the past were simply—tragic mistakes. But then,’ she added angrily, ‘you’ve always taken your father’s side.’

Before Cat could reply her mother had beckoned to Gil and set off determinedly round the room, towing him in her wake.

Leaving Cat to make her escape through the open French windows. Once outside, she drew a deep, shaking breath. That was one of the hardest things to bear—the constant accusations that she supported one parent more than the other.

Because it was simply not true. She’d done her best always—always to be even-handed. Often under very difficult circumstances.

She wished now that she’d turned down the entire invitation to the wedding, and not just Belinda’s reluctant invitation for her to be one of the bridesmaids. At least she’d had the sense to avoid that.

She couldn’t altogether blame her cousin for the undercurrent of hostility which had always soured their relationship. Belinda, too, was an only child, and had clearly resented Cat’s regular invasion of her family circle, even though she must have been aware there was nowhere else for her to go.

Even before the divorce David and Vanessa had been missing a lot of the time, either on location or touring in various plays. Although Cat could remember an idyllic year at Stratford, where she’d joined them during her holidays from boarding school. And she had been with them during long runs in West End plays too.

Their separation and divorce had sent a seismic shock through the acting world, quite apart from the devastating effect on Cat herself.

There’d always been rows—tantrums, shouting and slammed doors—but followed by equally full-blooded reconciliations.

That last time, however, there had been no displays of histrionics, just a terrible quietness. And then, as if a switch had been thrown, they’d both plunged feverishly back into their separate careers and new much-vaunted relationships.

From then on Cat had owed what remained of her childhood stability to Uncle Robert and Aunt Susan. In spite of her problems with Belinda, their big, rambling house had seemed an oasis of security in her shaken world.

Which had made it even harder to bear, she thought sadly, when she’d spotted her uncle a few months ago at a corner table in a smart London restaurant, exchanging playful forkfuls of food and lingering glances with a much younger woman.

Perhaps he’d always been more like her father than she’d realised, she told herself with real regret, and this affair with his secretary was not the first time he’d strayed.

Looking back, she could pinpoint other strains and tensions in the household which she’d been too young to understand. Or maybe she’d simply been too immersed in her own shock and bewilderment at her parents’ parting to care.

After all, that had been the time when she’d learned about being alone, and the dangers of relying on other people for happiness.

On today’s performances, she thought, wincing, why would anyone wish to be married—ever? When betrayal and heartbreak seemed to be forever waiting in ambush.

It’s togetherness that seems to kill the thing off, she told herself broodingly. Maybe familiarity does breed contempt, after all.

Which was why she’d always retreated from any serious commitment, especially when moving in together had been suggested.

First you find somewhere to rent together, she thought, and then you get a joint mortgage, to be closely followed by an engagement party, and a trip down the aisle in a meringue like Belinda’s.

But I can’t do that. I am never, ever going to be caught in that trap. To hitch my wagon to one particular star when all the evidence suggests it doesn’t work.

Yet, if she was honest, celibacy had no great appeal either.

I don’t believe in ‘happy ever after’, she thought. But what’s wrong with ‘happy for now’?

The rest of her life was in order. She had an absorbing career, a terrific flat, and a pleasant social life.

So surely it should be possible to compromise somehow over the love thing? Find a relationship where she could still maintain a distance—enjoy her own space. And make it clear that it was the here and now that interested her, and not the future.

There was a faint breeze coming from the water as she reached the lake’s edge. It tousled her pale blonde hair, blowing the silky strands across her face. Impatiently Cat tried to rake them back into their usual layered bob, her attention caught by a moorhen proceeding with her chicks in a sedate convoy towards the reeds.

Life, she thought, must be so simple for moorhens. She was about to step forward for a better look when somewhere near at hand a man suddenly spoke, breaking into her consciousness.

‘I really don’t advise that.’ His voice was low pitched and cool, with a note of amusement in its depths.

Cat turned sharply, shaken by the realisation that she had unsuspected company, her brows snapping into a frown at having her peace suddenly disturbed.

No wonder she hadn’t noticed him. Although he was only a few yards away, he was standing half hidden in the shade of a weeping willow, one shoulder propped negligently against its slender trunk.

As he moved forward, pushing aside the trailing branches, Cat saw that he was tall and lean-hipped. A faded red polo shirt set off powerful shoulders, and his long legs were encased in shabby cream denims.

His face and forearms were tanned, and his thick dark hair curled slightly, yet he wasn’t handsome in any conventional sense. His high-bridged nose was too thin, and the lids that shaded his grey-green eyes were too heavy for that. But his mouth was well defined and humorous, with a faintly sensual curve to its lower lip.

Absorbing this, Cat felt jolted by a sudden stab of recognition. Which was ludicrous, she thought, dry-mouthed. Because she’d never seen this man before in her life.

If I had, she told herself, drawing a deep, unsteady breath, I’d remember it. My God, but I would.

She realised that he was studying her in turn, his own brows drawn together in faint bewilderment, as if he too was trying to place her in some context.

She was aware of the slow, strained thud of her own heartbeat. The sunlit silence seemed to enclose them, locking them together into a golden web. The deep breath she drew sounded like a sigh.

Then, somewhere close at hand, a bird sounded a note, long and piercingly sweet.

Breaking the strange spell that had trapped her and bringing her sharply back to reality. She stiffened—instantly and defensively.

‘Do you usually hand out unwanted advice to complete strangers?’ She kept her tone curt.

‘You’re pretty near the edge, and the mud is treacherous where you’re standing.’ He shrugged, apparently unfazed by her abruptness. ‘I wouldn’t like you to slip and fall on your back—or worse.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’m quite capable of looking after myself. You really don’t need to be concerned.’

He’d halted a few feet away, hands on hips. ‘It’s pure self-interest, I promise you.’ His expression was deadpan. ‘If you fell in, I’d feel obliged to rescue you, and that water is freezing and full of weeds. Besides,’ he added, subjecting her ivory slip dress and the filmy turquoise and ivory jacket she wore over it to another lingering appraisal, ‘this wedding gear of yours clearly cost someone an arm and a leg. It would be a pity to spoil it.’

Cat’s mouth tightened. ‘Actually, I pay for my own clothes.’ She frowned. ‘And how do you know I’m at a wedding, anyway?’

He said drily, ‘Well, you’re clearly not dressed for a stroll in the countryside. Besides, I saw cars arriving earlier, done up with flowers and ribbons, plus girl in crinoline with veil looking furious. The usual stuff.’

He paused. ‘So what role are you playing in all this? Matron of honour?’

‘You’re not as observant as you think.’ She held up bare hands in a challenge she immediately regretted. ‘I’m not married.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily follow,’ he returned. ‘Wedding rings might not be politically correct this month.’

She hesitated. ‘I’m simply the bride’s cousin. Just another guest.’ She made a business of looking at her watch. ‘And I really should be getting back now.’

‘Why the sudden haste to go?’ His tone was lazy but his eyes were intent. She could feel them examining her, with all the intimacy of a touch, and felt her throat tighten in mingled alarm and excitement.

‘You wandered down here as if you had all the time in the world,’ he went on.

‘Because,’ Cat said tautly. ‘Things are quite tricky enough back there without me causing offence by staging a disappearing act.’

‘Although you’d like to.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘So, what’s the problem? Got a secret yen for the groom?’

‘God—no!’ The denial was startled out of her.

‘Well, that came from the heart.’ His mouth slanted into a wry grin. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

Now was the moment to tell him politely it was none of his business and go, thought Cat. Leave immediately, with no looking back.

So how was it she heard herself answering? ‘He plays rugby all winter, cricket all summer, has too much money and a roving eye. Plus he drinks far more than he should, and is already overweight.’

He whistled appreciatively. ‘You paint with words. No wonder the bride was looking so cross. Couldn’t you have done her a favour and produced a just impediment?’

‘I don’t think she’d have thanked me,’ Cat said drily. ‘Even if he has been leering down her best friend’s cleavage all through the reception.’

His brows rose. ‘Have they cut the cake yet? If not, I’d watch what she does with the knife.’

Cat realised her mouth was twitching, and tried to control it. ‘It’s not funny. And I really don’t know why I’ve told you all this, anyway,’ she added frankly.

‘Because you needed someone to talk to,’ he said. ‘And I happened to be here.’

‘Well, it’s very disloyal of me,’ she said. ‘And indiscreet. So, it would be kind of you to—put the whole thing out of your mind.’

‘All duly forgotten,’ he said. ‘Except, of course, for meeting you,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘You can’t really expect me to relegate that to some mental dustbin. That’s too much to ask.’

‘But we haven’t met,’ she said. ‘Not really.’ Oh, God, if he’d only stop looking at her like that. She could feel a languid warmth invading her that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. And instinct told her that it spelled danger—a complication that she didn’t need.

‘It’s just been a chance encounter,’ she continued hastily. ‘And it’s over now, anyway. I—I’m sure you have things to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well…’ Cat gave his shirt and jeans a dubious look. ‘You do work here, don’t you?’

‘Among other places,’ he nodded.

‘Then someone’s paying for your time,’ she said. ‘And they might not be too pleased to find you…’ She hesitated, searching for the right word.

‘Loitering?’ he supplied, his eyes glinting mockingly. ‘With intent?’

She bit her lip. ‘Something like that. I—I didn’t think jobs were that easy to come by these days.’

‘That rather depends on the job,’ he told her softly. ‘And whether or not you’re an expert at what you do.’

‘Which, naturally, you are,’ Cat flashed back at him, with more haste than wisdom.

‘I don’t have many complaints.’ He smiled at her slowly, letting her know without equivocation that this conversation had nothing to do with gainful employment.

Cat found herself stifling a gasp as her inner heat went suddenly soaring and her imagination ran momentarily wild. And he, she thought with shock, was as aware of that as she was herself.

‘But it’s good of you to care,’ he added negligently.

She said carefully, as she got her breathing back under control, ‘Actually, I don’t give a damn what you do in your working hours or out of them. But I do wonder what the Durant hotel chain would say if they knew that one of their employees spent part of his working hours—harassing guests?’

His brows lifted. ‘Is that what I’m doing?’ he enquired sardonically. ‘I hadn’t realised. In that case, I’d better leave you in peace and return to my—er—duties, so that you can get back to the party of the century.’ He turned, lifting a casual hand. ‘Have a nice day.’

She was aware of ludicrously mixed feelings as he walked away. Yes, she’d found him both attractive and quite unbelievably unsettling, making it essential for the encounter to be brought to a brisk end before she said or did something genuinely stupid, but had it really been necessary to go into uptight bitch mode instead?

Maybe, she thought wryly, because I know that at any other time or place I could have been very seriously tempted.

But now I have to get back to the reception and check that it hasn’t descended into open warfare.

She made to turn and nearly overbalanced, arms flailing, as she realised, too late, that the slender high heel of one strappy turquoise sandal was stuck firmly in the mud.

Oh, God, she groaned inwardly, this is all I need.

She tried desperately to wriggle it free, but it wouldn’t budge, and now her other heel appeared to be sinking too.

Of course she could always slip her feet out of her shoes and tiptoe to firmer ground, but it would be only too easy to slip.

And with her luck…

What she actually needed, she realised reluctantly, was assistance.

There was only one person in earshot who could provide that, and he was now some fifty yards away, and moving fast.

She put her hands to her mouth. ‘Hey,’ she called. ‘Could you come back, please? I—I need help.’

He swung round and looked at her, and for one awful moment she was convinced he was simply going to shrug and walk on, leaving her there, stranded. Which, of course, would be the perfect revenge, she thought, simmering.

But then he began to make his way back, without particular hurry. He paused a few feet away, watching her, poker-faced. ‘Having trouble?’

‘As you see.’ Cat bit her lip. ‘And, yes, you warned me, so I only have myself to blame. But could you get me out of here, just the same?’ She paused, waiting in vain for some move on his part—even some softening of his expression. Then added with some difficulty, ‘Please?’

‘I’d be delighted.’ He walked over to her. ‘Are you prepared to put your arm round my neck? Or will you have me arrested as well as fired?’

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry about all that.’ She tried a laugh. ‘I’m—a little tense, that’s all.’

She felt awkward and absurdly self-conscious as she did as she was bidden. Inadvertently her hand brushed his hair, and its crisp texture sent a shiver through her body.

He put his arm round her waist, and she felt his muscles bunch as he lifted her clear of her shoes, balancing her on his hip. She could feel the warmth of his body burning through her thin dress—and—even more troubling—the immediacy of her own response.

He smiled into her eyes. ‘I’ll do a trade with you,’ he said softly. ‘Have dinner with me tonight, and I’ll not only rescue your footwear, Cinderella, but I’ll also resist the temptation to dump you on your charming backside in the mud.’

Her arm tightened round his neck in pure alarm. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

He allowed her to slip—just a fraction—and she gasped, half in panic and half at the increased intimacy of the contact, aware that her dress had ridden up round her thighs and that he knew it too.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Is it a deal?’

She was silent for a moment, her mind churning. Then, ‘I suppose so,’ she muttered.