His Mistress For A Week. Melanie Milburne

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СКАЧАТЬ cheeks went a deep shade of pink. ‘I’m not a charity case. No pun intended.’

      She was kind of cute when she was worked up about something. Like a cornered kitten hissing and spitting at a potential threat. Something about her sense of pride impressed him. She thought she could outsmart him but he had her covered. More than covered. ‘I promise not to spend too much. Come on. The luggage shop is through here.’

      Once they were inside the shop, Alistair waited for her to choose a bag but she stood there with a mutinous scowl on her face. ‘If you don’t choose then I’ll have to do it for you,’ he said. ‘Do you have a preference for colour?’

      ‘I told you, I don’t want a new bag.’

      He pointed to the Louis Vuitton display. ‘What about this one?’

      ‘No. That’s ridiculously expensive. I couldn’t possibly—’

      ‘We’ll take this one,’ he said to the hovering attendant.

      Alistair carried the bag to a space outside where Clem could repack. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Do you need any help?’

      ‘No. Thank. You.’ Her response was as stiff as her body when she crouched down to see to the task. She tugged at the zip but because the bag was bulging so much the zip wouldn’t budge.

      ‘You sure you don’t need a hand?’

      ‘I’ve. Got. It.’

      She’d got it all right. The zip suddenly gave way and an explosion of clothes tumbled out of the bag. She began to scoop them up like someone trying to gather up a load of spilled oranges. There were tops, and scarves and bras and knickers and shoes. How many pairs of shoes did one woman need?

      ‘I think you might’ve left some space in that back corner.’ Alistair fought back a smile. ‘For an earring.’

      She gave him a look that would have soured milk. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’

      But then she started scrabbling through her clothes as if she was searching for something. Her forehead puckered in a frown, her teeth worrying her lower lip. She dug deeper into the pile of clothes, tossing things this way and that, her air of desperation apparent in the way her movements got more and more jerky and her top lip began to bead with perspiration.

      ‘What are you looking for?’

      ‘Nothing.’ The word came out on a shaky breath, and she scrabbled about some more, but the clothes were in such a mess by now it was hard to see what was there and what wasn’t.

      Alistair could feel the panic building in her. It was a palpable energy pulsating in the air. He bent down beside her and picked up a blue-and-white-striped mug that was covered by a black T-shirt. ‘I’ve heard of people packing everything but the kitchen sink, but this I’ve never seen before.’ He gave her a teasing glance. ‘They do have crockery and cutlery in France, you know.’

      Her mouth was buttoned down so tightly her lips were outlined in white. ‘It’s my favourite mug.’ She snatched it out of his hand and clutched it close to her heaving chest. ‘I don’t go anywhere without it.’

      Alistair watched as she put her things in the new bag. Gone was the disordered panic. In its place was meticulous care and precision. He had never seen a bag packed so well. It was like a work of art, colour and fabric coordinated. Amazing. Finally she wrapped the mug in a sweater and carefully placed it in the middle of the bag as if she was tucking in a baby. It wasn’t as if the mug was priceless porcelain. It was a common chain-store one so old it was losing some of its stripes.

      What significance did it have for her? Had someone she loved given it to her? Her mother? It seemed a pretty cheap present to give your only daughter, but that didn’t surprise him, knowing what he knew of her mother. Her father? She hadn’t sounded all that fond of her father. Her brother? ‘Who gave you the mug?’

      ‘No one.’ She closed the bag like she was closing the subject. ‘I just like it, that’s all.’

      Alistair studied her flushed features. Defiance or embarrassment? What did she have to be embarrassed about? It was a little quirky but there were worse things than quirky. Way worse. ‘If you’re so fond of it then shouldn’t you put it in your hand luggage?’

      ‘I don’t want to risk someone taking it off me at the security checkpoint. Those guys can get pretty touchy about stuff.’

      ‘True, but have you ever seen the baggage handlers loading and unloading? Some of them drop pianos on anything marked “fragile.”’

      ‘Another reason I don’t fly that often.’

      Alistair gave her a searching look. ‘Are you nervous about flying?’

      A spark of defensiveness shone in her gaze. ‘What on earth gives you that idea?’

      ‘You keep picking at the stitching on your tote-bag strap.’

      Her fingers stopped fidgeting as if they had been snapped frozen. ‘Anything else you’d like to criticise?’

      ‘I’m not criticising, I’m observing.’

      She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

      Alistair hoped to hell not, otherwise she would never get on that plane with him. ‘What am I thinking?’ Apart from how much I want to kiss that pert little mouth.

      Bitterness was hard and bright in her gaze. ‘You think I’m a nut job.’

      ‘Because you brought a mug with you?’

      She chin came up. ‘Go on. Say it. Say I’m an obsessive freak.’

      ‘We all have our quirks. No doubt you’ll find out some of mine over the next few days.’

      Her eyes went wide in mock surprise. ‘What? Mr Perfect has a quirk or two? That I would like to see.’

      What he would like to see was what she looked like in some of that lacy underwear he’d seen in her bag. And what she looked like out of it. Which was damned inconvenient because, of all the women in the world, this one was the last one he wanted to complicate his life with. Clementine Scott was trouble in big flashing neon letters.

      And he’d better not forget it.

       CHAPTER THREE

      CLEM SLID HER passport towards the official and waited for it. It happened every time she travelled abroad. It didn’t matter if the official was male or female or young or old or middle-aged, their response was always the same: the raising of eyebrows as they read the names printed there, then the slant of the mouth, then their mocking gaze flicking up to meet hers. This time was no different. Oh, joy.

      ‘Moonbeam?’ the male official said. ‘Is that really your name?’

      ‘My middle name,’ Clem said through a clenched-teeth grimace.

      The official stamped her passport with a chuckle. ‘Lucky СКАЧАТЬ