Mistress Of Deception

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

“You can’t marry

Stevenson.”

Alan ground out the words. “You don’t love him!”

“How do you know?” Ebony said, using her fingers to comb her tangled hair back from her face.

“Because you’re incapable of loving any man,” he stated harshly.

Her short bark of laughter was half disbelieving, half mocking. “Certainly not a man like you!”

His blue eyes blazed for a second before adopting an expression of cold contempt.

“Then why keep on going to bed with me?”

MIRANDA LEE is Australian, living near Sydney. Born and raised in the Bush, she was boarding-school educated and briefly pursued a classical music career before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three grown-up daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast paced and sexy. Her interests include reading meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

Miranda Lee is the author of Hearts of Fire.

Mistress Of Deception

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘I PRESUME you’ll be going to the wool fashion awards tonight?’ Deirdre Carstairs asked her son over lunch.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ was his cool reply.

‘Why “unfortunately”? Fashion is your business, after all.’ And your life, she added silently, and with some irritation. Alan had always been a workaholic, but lately he was worse than ever, sometimes working all night. One would have thought that establishing a chain of very popular off-the-peg menswear stores all over Australia, as well as personally running the manufacturing establishments to fill them, would have been enough. Now he was planning on branching out into designer clothes as well.

Deirdre suppressed a sigh. It was so difficult to tell Alan anything. He’d taken over as head of the family when he was only twenty, his father’s unexpected death from a heart attack having left the family’s clothes factory on the brink of receivership. Their home too had been found to be holding a second mortgage. Alan had had to work his fingers to the bone to pull them out of bankruptcy. But he’d succeeded, and succeeded very well. She was extremely proud of him.

The one unfortunate result of his success, however, was that he’d become rather bossy. He expected people just to go along with whatever he wanted. It must have come as a considerable shock, Deirdre realised, when the one woman who’d managed to capture his heart had upped and married another man a few years back.

Her head lifted, eyes narrowing with suspicion as she watched her son forking his fettuccine marinara into his mouth. ‘Is Adrianna going to be there?’ she asked casually.

His shrug seemed non-committal, but he was a master at hiding his feelings. ‘I doubt it. Her label hasn’t been entered into the competitions. She rarely comes to Sydney any more.’ He lifted his dark, glossy head, his very male but rather cruel mouth curving back into a wry smile. ‘Stop fishing, Mother. The reason I don’t want to attend tonight is because I’m tired.’

‘Then don’t go. Stay home here and watch it on television with your poor old mum.’

He laughed, and Deirdre wished he would laugh more often. Laughter lent some warmth to his coldly handsome face, and those hard blue eyes of his.

‘Poor old Mum, my foot. You’re not poor. I’ve made sure of that! And secondly, at fifty-five, you’re not old either. Why don’t you do me and yourself a favour and find some nice man to occupy your time? Then I won’t have to put up with your trying to organise my leisure time for me.’

‘Do you have any leisure time?’ she remarked archly.

‘Occasionally.’

‘Heaven knows when. Or what you do with it.’

Alan’s laugh was dry. ‘Don’t you worry about what I do with my time, Mother. I’m a big boy now.’

But Deirdre did worry about him. Since Adrianna’s rejection, Alan had not brought one woman home. She didn’t for one moment imagine her handsome son was celibate, but she shuddered to think he might be indulging in one-night stands rather than risk being hurt again. She did so want him to get married and have children, but she dared not broach the subject. He was very prickly about his private life.

‘Will Ebony be one of the models tonight, do you know?’ she asked instead.

‘I dare say,’ Alan returned in that same flat tone he always used when the subject of Ebony came up these days. Deirdre knew her son well enough to know that when he sounded his most calm he was, in fact, at his most annoyed.

It was a wicked shame, she thought, that their once close relationship had been ruined by money. Ebony was a sweet girl, but too proud in Deirdre’s opinion. Fancy taking offence when she found out that her parents’ estate had been negligible, and that Alan—as her appointed guardian—had generously, but quite rightly, paid for all her education and expenses. What had she expected him to do? She’d only been fifteen, after all.

Still, when the girl had discovered shortly after leaving boarding-school at eighteen that this was so, she’d apparently been most upset. She and Alan had had some kind of altercation in the library over the situation, resulting in Ebony running to her room, crying. Deirdre had been unable to comfort her, the girl saying over and over that she had to leave.

At the time Ebony had been doing a grooming and modelling course that Deirdre herself had given her as a Christmas present that year. When the lady running the modelling course had recommended Ebony to a modelling agency, saying she had the potential to reach the top in that profession, the stubborn child had immediately dropped her idea of going to teacher-training college and had pursued a career that would start paying immediately.

She’d been an instant hit, on both the catwalk and behind the photographers’ lenses, and it hadn’t been long before she was giving Alan a cheque every week in repayment. Then, as soon as she’d been earning enough money, she had moved out of the house and into a flat of her own.

Alan had been furious, and had refused to speak of Ebony for a long long time. It wasn’t till Deirdre had thrown her a twenty-first birthday party a little over a year ago that he had even deigned to be in the same room with her. Whenever she’d come to visit Deirdre on previous occasions, and Alan had been home, he would make some excuse to leave the house. This time, however, under threat from his mother, he had been civil to Ebony in front of the other guests, though far from pleased when he’d found out she was to stay the night. Forgiveness was not one of Alan’s strong points.

The tension at the breakfast-table the following morning had been so acute that Deirdre had vowed never to ask Ebony to stay over again. It just wasn’t worth it. But the ongoing feud was a thorn in her side. She loved the girl, thought of her as fondly as her own daughter, Vicki. Nothing would please her more than if her son and his ward made up.

‘Don’t you think it’s time you and Ebony buried the hatchet?’ she said with an unhappy sigh.

‘I hardly think that’s ever likely.’

‘Why not? Maybe if you were nicer to her when you saw her, which you must do occasionally. You’re in the same business.’

Alan’s laugh was harsh. ‘If I were nice to Ebony, she’d spit in my face.’

‘Alan! She would not. Ebony’s a lady.’

‘Is she, now? Funny, I’ve never thought of her as such. A black-hearted witch, perhaps. But never a lady.’

Deirdre was truly shocked. ‘Are we talking about the same girl here?’

‘Oh, yes, Mother, we most certainly are. Your sweet Ebony has just never chosen to show you that side of herself.’

‘I think you’re biased.’

‘Aye, that I am,’ he agreed drily.

‘What did you say to her that night in the library that upset her so much? I never could get the details of your argument out of her.’

Alan put down his serviette and rose. ‘For pity’s sake, Mother, that was nearly four years ago. How could I possibly remember? Probably told her she was an ungrateful little wretch, which she was. Now I must go. I have appointments lined up all afternoon with prospective designers dying to head my new Man-About-Town exclusive label.’

Walking round to peck her on the forehead, he strode from the patio into the living-room and towards the front door, an elegant figure in one of his own-brand business suits. Being six feet three and finely proportioned, Alan could have modelled his own products if he’d chosen to.

Deirdre watched him go with increasing unease. He was not happy, she decided, and, like all mothers, she wanted her son to be happy. She wanted both her children to be happy. Vicki seemed happy, living in a run-down house in Paddington with some artist whom she claimed to be mad about.

But he was the latest of a series of men she’d been ‘mad about’ during the past ten years. Antimarriage and anti-establishment, Vicki had moved out of home when she was nineteen ‘in search of her own identity’, whatever that meant. Still, it was Vicki’s life and she was supposed to be doing quite well, managing a record shop in Oxford Street, though she often dropped home to ask Alan for a ‘loan’, which he usually gave her along with a lecture.

Deirdre suspected, however, that Alan didn’t mind giving his sister money—and advice—every now and then. He liked being needed. And he liked helping people.

‘Mr Alan gone, has he?’

Deirdre sighed. ‘Yes, Bob.’

He tut-tutted. ‘That man works too hard. Have you finished too, Mrs Carstairs? Will I clear away?’

‘Yes, do. It was lovely, Bob. You cook Italian like an Italian.’

The little man beamed, and began clearing the table, stacking up the plates with a very steady hand for a man pushing sixty. Deirdre watched him bustle off back into the kitchen, thinking to herself that he was another example of Alan’s basic kindness.

Bob, and his twin brother, Bill, had up till two years ago lived on a chicken farm, with Bob tending to the household chores while Bill did the manual labour outside. Neither twin had ever married, both being very shy men. Their farm had been their life till the recession and high interest rates had sent them broke. Alan had spotted them being interviewed on a television programme on the day the bank was to repossess their property and evict them. Both men had broken down during the painful interview. It had torn Deirdre’s heart out, making her cry.

When Alan had abruptly left the family room, she’d thought maybe he was upset too. And he probably had been. But, being a man of action, he’d left the room to telephone the station and start making arrangements to meet the elderly twin brothers. The upshot was Bob and Bill were brought to Sydney and installed in the Carstairses’ home, Bob as cook and cleaner, Bill as gardener and handyman. Alan had even had the old servants’ quarters fitted out as a self-contained flat for them. Both men thought him a prince of the first order, and were devoted to his service. When Alan had casually mentioned one day that he liked Italian food, Bob had raced out and bought several Italian cookbooks with his own money.

Yes, Alan could do good deeds, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a difficult man. Deirdre hoped he’d be polite to Ebony at the show tonight. Fancy his calling her a black-hearted witch! Why, Ebony was no such thing! She had always been such a sweet girl, pleasant and polite to her elders. She was a little aloof at times, but that was to be expected, given her background. Deirdre could not understand why Alan was so hard on her…

Ebony came out on to the catwalk, tall and sophisticated in a black wool dress that was basically strapless but had a black lace overlay that went right up to the neck and down her arms in tight sleeves. If the intention of the lace was modesty, then it failed miserably.

Every male in the room snapped to attention as she moved with a lithe, sensuous grace down that raised pathway, her waist-length straight black hair draped over one shoulder and her deeply set black eyes projecting a dark, mysterious allure from underneath black, winged brows. Her wide, full mouth was painted a deep scarlet in vivid contrast to her white, white skin.

Alan shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked away. He needed no reminders of what she looked like, or how easily she could bewitch.

‘Geez, Alan,’ the man seated next to him whispered. ‘And to think you had that living under your roof all those years. How did you stand it, man?’

‘Familiarity breeds contempt, my friend,’ he returned smoothly. ‘Besides, she doesn’t look the same without her make-up on.’

‘I’d like an opportunity to wake up in bed with her one morning and judge that for myself,’ came the dry rejoinder. ‘Still, from what I’ve heard, I’m not her type.’

Alan straightened in his chair. ‘Oh? And what’s her type?’

‘Photographers, I gather.’

‘Meaning?’

‘God, Alan, don’t you know anything about your own ward’s life. Our supermodel is reported to have had a fling with all of her photographers so far. She and Gary Stevenson were a really hot item a couple of years ago before he took off for Paris. But he’s back in Sydney now and has clearly taken up where he left off. I saw them myself only today, having lunch down at a café in Darling Harbour.’

‘Is that so?’

‘You don’t sound concerned. Stevenson’s a good deal older than her, you know.’

Alan tried not to bristle, but did, anyway. ‘He’s only in his thirties.’

‘Closer to forty. And how old’s your Ebony?’

‘Twenty-two. And she’s not my Ebony,’ he bit out. ‘She’s a free agent. Now, can we watch the show? We’ve paid two hundred dollars a seat for this ringside table. Let’s get our money’s worth.’

Alan’s colleague settled back in a disgruntled silence, leaving Alan forced to pretend to watch the rest of the parade. Ebony had been up and down a couple of times by now, and was sashaying back towards the group of models who were waiting their turn in front of the huge red velvet curtain. The highly sensual sway of her curvaceous buttocks and hips sent a cold fury into his veins.

Does she know what she’s doing? he wondered savagely. Does she know I’m here?

Of course she does, came the bitter answer. She’s a witch, a black-hearted witch!

God damn you to hell, Ebony Theroux.

He parked in the street opposite the three-storey square building that housed her flat, watching and waiting for her to come home. What he would do if she showed up with Stevenson, or any of her other numerous admirers, God only knew. Would he be able to meekly drive on? Or would he find some way to spoil her night, as she had already spoiled his?

He’d vowed after the last argument they’d had not to have anything further to do with her, never to come here to see her again. But he’d vowed that the time before as well.

His teeth clenched down hard in his jaw, his stomach muscles tightening. Would he never rid himself of this gut-wrenching desire? It had been four years now. Four painful, soul-destroying years. He really could not allow it to go on. He would have to do something about it.

But he’d said that before, as well.

A light snapped on in her flat, sending a wave of near-nausea churning through his innards. He hadn’t seen her enter the building, anger at this crazy but uncontrollable desire having distracted him for a moment. Now, she’d slipped in without his knowing if she was alone or not.

He stared up at the square of light, his eyes darting left as he waited anxiously for her bedroom light to be switched on as well. That was a large window with gauzy curtains. If she had someone with her, he would soon know.

The light remained off.

After several tortuous minutes, he couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. With an agitated, jerky movement, he extracted the keys from the ignition, not bothering to put the steering lock on, only just remembering to lock the door before swinging it shut. It was only when the bitter winter air cut through him that he remembered his overcoat draped over the passenger seat.

‘Damn it!’ he swore, and, ramming his keys and hands into the trouser pockets of his black dinner suit, strode angrily across the dimly lit street and up to the locked security door. For a moment he hesitated, self-disgust urging him to turn right round and go home. But other forces were at work, forces far stronger than pride. He jabbed the buzzer on flat eight with his finger.

His heart began to thud, disgusting him further. Why did he let her do this to him? Why?

‘Yes?’ came the low, husky query that sent a shiver down his hunched spine.

‘It’s Alan,’ he said, despising himself.

‘Alan…’ she repeated as though trying to recall whom she might know called Alan.

He bit his tongue to stop himself from snapping at her. Male ego demanded he play her at her own game, keeping his cool, not allowing her any more triumph than was strictly necessary.

‘What do you want, Alan?’

To strangle you, he thought viciously. God, but she liked turning the screw.

‘For pity’s sake, Ebony, it’s bitter out here. Just let me in. Or aren’t you alone?’ he finished cuttingly.

There was a moment’s tense silence from the intercom before a buzzing sound indicated she had opened the door. Alan hated himself for the rush of relief, not to mention the rush of something else that immediately stampeded through his body. But already he was on that treadmill of excitement that she could generate without any conscious effort. He couldn’t look at her these days without wanting her so badly that it was a painful ache in his loins.

She met him at the door, still wearing that damned black dress. It was one of her contract conditions, that whenever she did a fashion parade she kept the clothes she modelled. The designers didn’t mind. The fabulous Ebony wearing their clothes in public was great advertising, and cheaper than most.

‘That dress looks even better up close,’ he said in a desire-thickened voice.

She eyed him coolly over the rim of a glass of white wine, sipping while those black eyes stripped his soul naked. ‘So you were there tonight,’ she remarked casually, and, turning, began walking across the tiled foyer and into the living-room. Alan was left to come in alone and close the door behind him, following her as she wandered, glass in hand, into her strikingly furnished flat.

Alan glanced around the lounge-room and marvelled at the effect she had achieved with just a few pieces of furniture. Had she deliberately chosen white as a foil for her colouring, or in cold mockery of what white usually represented? He wouldn’t put it past her. He wouldn’t put anything past her.

She kicked off her shoes and curled herself into one of the squashy white leather sofas that flanked the mock-fireplace. A gas fire was softly burning, highlighting the blue-black sheen on that gorgeous hair as well as sending a warm honey glow to her complexion. She must have washed off some of that stark white make-up, he thought as his hot gaze travelled down her body and up again. Her mouth was still red, though. Red and softly pouting.

Alan swallowed.

Once settled, she threw an indifferent glance at him over her shoulder. ‘Pour yourself some wine,’ she suggested, and waved a scarlet-nailed hand towards the kitchen. ‘The bottle’s in the fridge.’

‘No, thanks,’ he said stiffly, hating her for the way she always made him feel so darned awkward.

She said not a word while she drank the rest of her wine, placing the empty glass down on the marble coffee-table with a small, shuddering sigh. ‘Must you stand there like that with your hands in your pockets?’ she said. ‘You make me uncomfortable.’

His harsh laughter drew her eyes. ‘Do I indeed? That’s only fair, then.’

‘Fair?’ Those exquisitely shaped eyebrows lifted. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, and began walking slowly towards her. For a second he could have sworn he saw fear on her face. But just as swiftly, her expression changed to one of cool composure.

‘I have my final cheque ready to give you. I’ll get it.’ She was up and past him before he could do more than breathe her perfume. Still, as the exotic scent teased his nostrils, he felt his loins prickle in instant response. It angered him.

‘I did not come here for a cheque, Ebony. You know damned well I never wanted you to pay me back in the first place.’

Her smile was wry as she produced the cheque from a drawer. ‘Ah, yes, Alan, but what you want does not always have priority in my life.’

‘Meaning?’

Her eyes were like black coals, and just as hard. ‘Meaning I want you to take this cheque and get the hell out of my life. I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m going to be married.’

‘Married!’ Something exploded in Alan’s head. She couldn’t be getting married. He wouldn’t let her. She was his!

‘That’s right,’ she went on brusquely. ‘To Gary Stevenson. He asked me today. He wants me to go back to Paris with him, and I’m going to.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Then I suggest you do, Alan. It’s over between us. Over!’

‘Is it, by God? I don’t think so, Ebony. Not at all.’ Snatching the cheque out of her hands, he ripped it into shreds before pulling her into his arms and kissing her till both of them were gasping for breath.

When she spun out of his grasp he caught her and yanked her back against him, one hand pressing her stomach so that her buttocks were hard against his arousal, the other wrapped around her heaving breasts. ‘I won’t let you go,’ he rasped, his panting mouth against her ear. ‘You’re mine, Ebony. Mine!’

In a wild desperation, he started kissing her neck and stroking her braless breasts through the dress, the blood roaring through his veins as he felt the nipples harden beneath his hands. When he finally heard her groan, elation swept through him, steeling his sense of purpose, and his determination to win her total surrender one more time. Tomorrow did not figure largely in his mind. Nor the future. Not even her threatened marriage.

All he knew was that he had to have her naked beneath him, have her tremble as only she could tremble, have her take him to those places no other woman had ever taken him before.

‘Alan, no,’ she groaned again.

But it sounded like a yes to his impassioned ears. He had no mercy for her protests or her tears. He kept up the kissing and the touching till she gave one last shudder and whirled in his arms. Only then could he perhaps have seen the despair in her eyes, if he’d been capable of seeing anything beyond his own excruciating need. As it was, all he saw was that ripe red mouth, soft and swollen and seductive. He wanted to lose himself in that mouth, to have those pouting lips kiss him all over, to have them tease and torment his flesh till he could stand it no longer.