To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven

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      ‘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.

      ‘I’ve had more gracious acceptances.’ There was a touch of wryness in his tone. ‘But I guess I’ll have to settle for what I can get—for now, at least.’ He paused. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock? They should have finished removing the bodies from the Banqueting Suite by then.’

      Cat flushed, setting her mouth. ‘I did ask you to forget what I said.’

      ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘But I will try not to refer to it again.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re quite sure that you want to eat here?’ She was genuinely surprised at the suggestion. The Anscote Manor Hotel was quietly luxurious, and it had a fine reputation for its food—with prices to match.

      ‘You think they’ll refuse to serve me?’ He shook his head. ‘They’re quite democratic. There won’t be a problem.’

      Perhaps they even offered discount to staff, Cat thought, although it seemed unlikely on a busy summer evening. But if they were refused entry it would let her off the hook.

      ‘Very well,’ she acknowledged tonelessly. ‘Eight it is, then.’

      He carried her to a patch of dry grass and set her down, then went back for her shoes. He knelt, freeing each heel with great gentleness, then produced a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped them both carefully.

      He brought them to her. ‘Give me your foot,’ he directed, sinking down on to one knee, and mutely she obeyed, resting a hand momentarily on his shoulder as he fitted the sandals back on for her. Finding, as she did so, that she was fighting an impulse to let her fingers stray over the crispness of his dark hair, or inside the collar of his shirt, and explore the taut muscularity of his shoulders. Feeling a strange trembling weakness stir deep inside her.

      Oh, God, she told herself in a silent whisper. I cannot—cannot allow this to happen…

      ‘There,’ he said. ‘As good as new.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Cat said, pulling herself together with an effort. ‘But that’s more than can be said for those jeans—or your handkerchief.’ She regarded the glistening muddy streaks on both items with disfavour. ‘You’d better have them laundered and send me the bill.’

      ‘You pay for your clothes,’ he reminded her. ‘I pay for my own laundry. But it was a kind thought.’

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