The Rich Man's Mistress. CATHY WILLIAMS

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СКАЧАТЬ isn’t it?’ He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Do you think that Daddy might refuse me my much needed financial compensation if he knew?’

      ‘You’re not funny!’ She had somehow assumed that she had changed herself, even though she had no recollection of doing any such thing, but she could tell from the gleam in his eyes that the man wasn’t lying. He had unwrapped the towel from her and had pulled on a tee shirt, and somewhere along the line those big hands of his had touched her shoulders, her stomach, her breasts. ‘You had no right!’

      ‘I do beg Your Highness’s pardon, but going to sleep with a wet towel around you in a damp room would just have compounded the sprained ankle with a healthy dose of pneumonia.’

      ‘You still had no right! You should have awakened me!’

      ‘I’ll try and remember the next time, if you try and remember to stick to the nursery slopes so that there won’t be a next time. You haven’t eaten all your egg up.’

      ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’ She closed her knife and fork and reclined back on the pillow.

      ‘In which case, you’d better try and find it. You’re building your strength up and step one is eating all that breakfast, meticulously prepared by my own fair hands.’ He leaned forward. ‘Maybe you’d like me to feed the rest to you…’

      Miranda gave a little yelp of denial and hurriedly ate what was left on her plate, then she wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and folded her arms.

      ‘Now,’ he said implacably, standing up to remove the tray and then whipping the duvet off her so that she yelped even louder, this time in enraged discomfort, ‘the next thing I advise you to do is test that foot of yours.’

      ‘And would you like to hear what I advise you to do?’

      ‘Not really. Here, hold my hand and stand up.’

      ‘Or else what…?’

      ‘You don’t want to find out,’ he said silkily. ‘Now, stand up and try that foot of yours.’

      When she remained on the bed, he leaned over her and said in a low, razor-sharp voice, ‘Shall I just remind you that you’re an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion into my house…’

      ‘Your house?’

      ‘While I’m looking after it, it’s my house. And if you think you’re going to play the grand princess and laze around for the next few days, or weeks if this weather doesn’t sort itself out, then you’re in for a shock. I’m not a man who puts up with the wiles and tantrums of a spoiled little rich girl!’

      ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Her imperious voice, which reflected more than anything else her bemusement at finding herself in the situation she was in and dealing with the man in front of her, failed to strike a chord. Or rather it did. Luke burst out laughing.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ he said, sobering up but not sufficiently to stop the occasional cynical chuckle from slipping through. ‘Oh, dear, dear, dear. And you wonder why I call you m’lady? Now, up!’

      Miranda reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed, noting with relief that the tee shirt modestly reached down to just above her knees, and grasped his proffered hand.

      ‘Try and put a little weight on it.’

      ‘I can’t.’

      ‘Just try, and stop acting like a baby.’

      Which did it. She tentatively touched the ground with her foot and discovered as she applied a bit more pressure that the immediate searing pain she had felt the previous day had become more of a persistent, dull discomfort.

      ‘I’ll remove the bandage before you get dressed and soak your foot in some cold water and then I’ll truss you up again.’

      ‘There’s no need. I can do that myself.’

      ‘Should I allow you to do that, I would live for ever in fear of Daddy’s avenging wrath.’

      Miranda stopped her halting walk and stared up at him. ‘I hate that. Why are you so…horrible and scathing about me? You don’t even know who I am or what sort of person I am! Yet you feel it’s all right to make nasty, derogatory comments about me and my father. Daddy always said that the worst snobs are the inverted snobs. He always said that they’re the worst because they never give you a chance to prove yourself one way or another. They just assume that because someone has money, then they can’t be worthwhile.’ She found herself breathing shallowly as she stared up into his blue eyes.

      ‘Is that what you think I am?’ he finally asked curiously. ‘An inverted snob?’

      ‘Why else would you be so awful? Just because you don’t have any money doesn’t make it my fault!’

      ‘No, I guess you’re right,’ he said in an odd voice, ‘it doesn’t, does it?’

      Instead of feeling pleased at this unexpected victory, Miranda felt suddenly nervous. Nervous because she had become quickly accustomed to his hostility and the lack of it was confusing.

      ‘My foot feels a lot better,’ she said, to change the subject, supporting herself on his arm as they headed slowly towards the bathroom, where a further unwanted reminder of his ministrations confronted her in the shape of the blue bath towel she had used the night before, neatly hanging over the towel rail.

      She sat on the closed toilet seat and watched as he filled a plastic basin with cold water.

      ‘It’s freezing,’ she gasped as he soaked her foot.

      He said, without looking up, ‘It’ll reduce most of the rest of the swelling. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the temperature. There.’ He held up her foot and examined it like a butcher sizing up a joint of meat. ‘Not very pretty, but it’ll do.’ Then he carefully rebandaged it, taking his time. ‘Now, there’s a change of clothes behind you on the ledge and you might want to do something with that hair of yours. Tie it up, perhaps. Not very practical having that mane swinging around, I shouldn’t think.’

      ‘Actually,’ Miranda informed him coolly, ‘a woman’s mane is her crowning glory.’

      ‘Oh, is that so? And I always thought of her crowning glory was her mind. How much I’m learning from you.’ He shot her a brief, patronising grin and then left.

      Miranda gingerly stood up and for the first time took a long look at her reflection in the mirror. Her waist-length blonde hair had been damp when she had fallen asleep, but even so it had dried and now fell in its usual silky curtain around her face. Her wide blue eyes absorbed the stunning prettiness of her features then, as she stripped off the oversized tee shirt, idly scanned the exquisite, slender proportions of her body. These looks, she thought dispassionately, had turned heads and had opened countless doors to the world of beautiful people in which she moved. If she had been dowdy and unattractive, would she have been as popular? Would men have beaten a path to her door, however much money her father had? Probably not. For the first time, she realised that her looks carried a downside. The had attracted men like Freddie, but looks were disposable. None of the men in her brittle world ever seemed to take time out to search for what lay beneath the sparkling veneer.

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