One Man's Mistress: One Night with His Virgin Mistress / Public Mistress, Private Affair / Mistress Against Her Will. Sara Craven

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      But she wouldn’t think about that, she added with silent determination, turning her attention to the spare room.

      Her new refuge wasn’t as large as the one she’d just vacated, and the bed was much smaller—queen-size, she thought, instead of emperor, if there was such a thing—but it was furnished with the same careful, slightly old-fashioned elegance as the rest of the flat, and at least there was a table at the window she could use as a desk, she told herself as she retrieved her laptop and manuscript pages from the office.

      And the wardrobes and drawers were empty, showing that Kit had taken his brother’s eviction threat seriously enough to remove all his belongings.

       Eviction …

      The word lingered and stung, reminding her succinctly that her own tenure was strictly temporary and that she had just one week to find alternative accommodation. But could she do it?

      Back to the evening paper, she thought with a sigh as she set about making up the bed, plus a serious trawl round very much cheaper areas—if there were such things in London—studying the cards in newsagents’ windows. She’d probably end up paying a fortune for some boxroom where she’d be balancing her laptop on her knee.

      However, even that would be bearable if it removed her from Mark Benedict’s orbit, she told herself. Yet, in fairness, although it galled her to admit it, she could not altogether blame him for wanting her out of his home and his life. After all, he was entitled to his privacy.

      And it was not his fault if she was left in an impossible and frightening position, but her own.

      Oh, God, she thought, how could I have been so utterly gullible? But Kit was just so … plausible, insisting all along that it was a serious business transaction and that by accepting his offer I’d be doing him a real favour. Which was probably the only genuine remark he made in the whole affair. He just failed to explain the actual nature of the favour, she told herself ruefully. And he certainly never hinted that it could land me in any trouble—especially the kind of danger that a man like Mark Benedict could represent, she added, shivering.

      But at least she hadn’t been forced to spend the night in some seedy bed and breakfast, terrified to close her eyes in case she was robbed, although that comment about a puppy on a motorway still rankled.

      But then almost everything about Mr Benedict grated on her, she thought, seething.

      However—and here was the silver lining to this particular cloud—she needed a villain for her book. Someone rough, crude, dissolute, uncaring and generally without a redeeming feature, who’d make her hero’s virtues shine even more brightly by contrast. And whose unwarranted interference in Mariana’s life would involve her heroine in all kinds of misfortune and ultimately bring her to the edge of disaster.

      But only to the edge, she thought, her heartbeat quickening. Because, in the end, it would be his own life that lay in ruins.

      And Mark Benedict would provide the perfect template for such a man, his ultimate downfall and probable demise dwelt upon in painful Technicolor detail.

      I’ll make him so obnoxious that when he bites the dust the readers will be on their feet cheering, she resolved. And I shall gloat over every word.

      It wouldn’t be complete revenge, sadly, because her target would never know, but—hey—you couldn’t have everything. And her own secret satisfaction would be all the compensation she needed.

      And now, re-energised, she would see about her supper.

      She marched cheerfully to the door, flung it open and stopped dead with a gasp, her face warming vividly as she confronted the villain himself, standing outside, his hand raised to knock.

      He glanced past her, his brows lifting. ‘I see you’ve settled in,’ he commented acidly. ‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, will you.’

      Little chance of that with you around … Tallie thought it best to keep her instinctive retort to herself.

      ‘And you look a little flushed, Miss Paget,’ he added. ‘Guilty conscience, perhaps?’

      ‘On the contrary,’ Tallie returned, her tone brisk. ‘I thought I’d obeyed all your instructions to the letter.’

      ‘Well, here’s another,’ he said coldly. ‘From now on, you don’t answer my phone. I’ve just had to spend a considerable amount of time trying to convince someone that I haven’t moved another woman in here behind her back and that you’re not “a friend”, as you claimed, but a damned nuisance.’

      ‘Oh,’ she said airily, cursing under her breath, ‘that. I … I’d forgotten.’

      But she remembered now—particularly recalling the haughty voice of her interrogator and how it had needled her. Just like the harshness of his tone was flicking her on the raw now.

      Two autocrats together, she thought. They’re perfect for each other.

      He was frowning. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

      She sighed. ‘Kit actually told me to say I was the cleaner if anyone rang, but it was incredibly late when your … your lady called, and it wasn’t feasible that I’d be there doing a little light dusting in the middle of the night. So I said the first thing that occurred to me.’

      ‘That,’ he said grimly, ‘is a habit you’d do well to break.’

      ‘Consider it done,’ she said. She paused. ‘And I’m sorry if I injured your … real friend’s feelings in any way, although I must say I didn’t get the impression she’d be quite that sensitive.’

      She took a deep breath. ‘And I certainly hope she never finds out about your own little habit—sexually harassing complete strangers—because I’d say that leaves my own little faux pas in the shade—and might drive her into a total nervous breakdown.’

      ‘Wow,’ he said softly. ‘The prim schoolgirl has quite a turn of phrase. But I think the lady in question would probably find it far more disturbing if I found a naked girl in my bathroom and wasn’t tempted in any way—even if only for a moment.’

      He added with cold emphasis, ‘Also, sweetheart, one look at you would be more than enough to convince her that nothing happened between us.’

      She stood staring at him, feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach. First Gareth, she thought numbly, now this—bastard. Not only have I been totally humiliated by him, I now seem to be carrying the sexual equivalent of the mark of Cain.

      Confirmation, as if I needed it, that no one could possibly want me.

      Her throat tightened suddenly, uncontrollably as she fought to maintain her composure.

      To hell with him, she thought shakily. Why should I give a damn what he thinks of me? If I’ve unfortunately failed to reach his required standard in female sensuality?

      Besides, being regarded by him as undesirable has to be a positive advantage in the present situation, because at least I won’t be spending the next few days and nights fighting him off.

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