The Mistress Contract, page 12
Time lost all meaning on the short walk to Giorgio’s. She had never felt so cherished, so protected, so deliciously feminine in her life before, and even though she knew it was an illusion—at least the cherishing part—it didn’t stop her from feeling as though she’d entered heaven on earth.
The little restaurant was almost full when Conrad opened the door and she stepped into the warm, aromatic interior— Giorgio was beginning to benefit from a well-deserved reputation and inevitably Friday nights were always popular—but when Giorgio saw her he at once came bustling to their side, his round face beaming.
‘We haven’t booked,’ Sephy said quickly, before he asked, ‘but I wondered if you’d got a table for two, Giorgio?’
‘For you, my beautiful lady, anything,’ Giorgio enthused in his heavy accent, before turning to Conrad and saying, ‘This lovely lady, she is beautiful, si? I tell her all the time.’
‘Very beautiful,’ Conrad agreed, ‘and I tell her too.’
‘This is good, verrry good.’ The smile became beatific. ‘You give me your coats and I take you to my verrry best table, si?’
Once they were seated in the far corner of the restaurant, and Giorgio had given them a somewhat dog-eared menu along with further effusive compliments for Sephy, she leant forward and said very quietly, ‘He calls all the women beautiful; he’s Italian.’
‘I’m English, and I agree with him in this instance.’
She stared at him, wondering if he knew how incongruous his designer suit and handmade shoes looked in the spartan confines of Giorgio’s scruffy little restaurant. He didn’t appear to, in fact he seemed perfectly relaxed and at home, but then Conrad never gave anything away. An enigma, that was what he was. A unique, twenty-four-carat enigma, with blue eyes and a smile to die for.
When the food came it was as good as Sephy had promised, and the raspberry-flavoured dry red wine Conrad had insisted on ordering and paying for was excellent, although wildly expensive.
‘I didn’t know he had wines like this,’ Sephy gulped in surprise after her first taste. ‘But then we always go for the cheap plonk, I’m afraid. Giorgio must despair at times.’
‘We?’ Conrad queried smoothly.
‘There’s a gang of us who normally come once or twice a week.’
‘Right.’ Narrowed blue eyes surveyed her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Well, let me tell you your Giorgio knows his wines,’ Conrad said pleasantly. ‘This place is quite a little find.’
Was he being patronising? Sephy asked herself silently, before she admitted she was being unfair. He was enjoying himself, it was patently obvious, and it wasn’t exactly what she had expected. It wasn’t very uplifting to admit she was capable of such mean-mindedness but she had to acknowledge she had hoped, deep inside, that he would display some disdain or superciliousness—anything—to bring to light a deficit in his character. She needed something to dislike him for, and snobbishness was as good as anything else.
She looked at him as he sat back in his chair, sipping his wine and gazing around the small restaurant, and her heart lurched and then raced on like an express train. She could still hardly believe she was here with him like this, or that yesterday evening had happened. Her and Conrad? It was surreal, impossible.
‘What’s the matter?’ As the piercing eyes fastened on her face she realised, too late, that he had been aware of her scrutiny.
‘The matter? Why does anything have to be the matter?’ she parried quickly, knowing she was blushing a bright red.
There was a significant little silence as he gave her a long, meaningful look. ‘Because you are you,’ he said drily, ‘and I’m learning fast. What have I done wrong this time?’
‘Don’t be silly. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
She was immensely glad that Giorgio chose that particular moment to come bustling up to remove their empty plates and give them the dessert menu. He didn’t often wait on customers, his two daughters were employed in that role, but he seemed to have taken a liking to Conrad—or more probably a liking to his obvious wealth, Sephy thought a trifle cynically. Giorgio was a businessman first and foremost.
‘Wow.’ Conrad glanced at the handwritten menu before looking at Sephy, his eyes smiling. ‘Can I choose anything I like?’ he asked humbly, his eyes gently mocking her.
‘Of course.’ Her voice was stiff; she couldn’t help it.
‘Then I’ll have a double portion of the tiramisu,’ Conrad said with open unrepentant greed, ‘and, as I’m not driving, a liqueur coffee to follow. French, I think.’
‘Ah, this is good. A man who knows what he likes,’ Giorgio gushed at their side.
And then Sephy went a brilliant pink as Conrad said softly, his eyes fixed on her flushed face, ‘Oh, I know what I like, but not everything is as easy to get as the tiramisu.’
‘Yes, well, I’ll have the caramel orange, please,’ Sephy cut in quickly, her voice something of a snap as she lowered her eyes to the menu in her hands. ‘And just coffee with cream, Giorgio.’
For the rest of the meal Conrad put himself out to be amusing and charming, and Sephy thought he had forgotten their previous conversation, but then, having paid the bill among more ebullient profusion from Giorgio, they stepped into the dark, cold world beyond the restaurant doors. It had stopped sleeting but the winter night was freezing, the sky covered by dense cloud, and they had only gone a few steps towards the flat when Conrad turned her to face him. He looked down at her, his blue eyes narrowed and thoughtful.
‘I want to know,’ he said softly.
‘Know?’ She stared up at him, genuinely at a loss.
‘What you were thinking of in there before Giorgio came up with the dessert menu,’ he said evenly. ‘Were you comparing me with him? With this guy who broke your heart?’
‘I’ve never said anyone broke my heart,’ Sephy protested hotly. She didn’t want to do this, and especially not right now.
‘Who was he, Sephy?’ His voice was harsher now, tight even. ‘This “something” that happened to you when you were younger that you spoke of? Did he abuse you, was that it? Or was it a love affair that ended badly? Did you live with him?’ he pressed further.
Sephy was stunned. ‘What? No, of course I didn’t live with him,’ she said unthinkingly, before coming to an abrupt halt.
‘In this day and age there is no “of course” about it,’ he said tersely.
‘There is for me.’ She tried to remove herself from his grasp but his grip on her forearms tightened. ‘It was nothing like that.’
‘So, tell me.’ His eyes were holding hers, their blue blinding.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said defensively. And there wasn’t, not really. ‘He, David, was just a boy I knew in the place where I grew up. I thought he liked me, he didn’t, so that was that. It happens all the time in one way or another. End of story.’
He let go of one of her arms, but only so he could cup her small jaw. ‘The hell it is,’ he said softly. ‘He hurt you badly, didn’t he, this David. Put you off the male sex for a long time?’
She shrugged, showing him her pure sweet profile as she looked away. ‘It happens,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s history now anyway.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eighteen.’ Oh, God, please make him stop asking these probing questions, she prayed silently. She couldn’t tell him all of it; she would rather die. A broken love affair was one thing; there was at least some street cred in that. But what had happened to her was just debasing and humiliating and horrible. And he was a man who had had hundreds of women; his experience was vast and his mind was blasé and sophisticated. He would find it laughable that she had allowed it to happen in the first place, and be incredulous that it had continued to affect her up to this present time. What would he say if he knew she had never had a steady boyfriend, just the odd date now and again?
‘Eighteen.’ Anger thickened his voice and he swore, a raw profanity that shocked Sephy into lowering her thick lashes and jerking away. She couldn’t talk about this any more.
‘Please, Conrad…’ She took a silent pull of the icy air and forced her voice to be steady. ‘I don’t want to talk about this, okay?’
‘Okay.’ He reached out and pulled her roughly into his arms, his voice controlled again. ‘I’m sorry he hurt the young eighteen-year-old Sephy,’ he said quietly, his voice deep and sincere, and with a note in it that brought her head up to meet his eyes. He touched her mouth tenderly with one finger as he added, ‘But if he hadn’t, you might have settled for boring domesticity instead of turning into the career woman you are now, and then we wouldn’t have met.’
Career woman. She felt a sharp stab as guilt pierced her conscience. All this, to him chasing her and everything that had happened, was because she had misled him from the start. She wasn’t a career woman. Not in the way he assumed anyway—the way all his other women were. Boring domesticity—she would give the rest of her life for a day of boring domesticity with him. And he would run a mile if he knew that! This was all suddenly very muddled.
She knew he was going to kiss her and she had never wanted anything so much in her life. Nevertheless she stiffened, attempting to pull away, but then she was crushed against him in the dark shadows of the badly lit street and his lips moved against hers, dominating and hungry.
And immediately, without any warning, she felt the desire rise up in her with such desperate need that she sagged against him slightly as his whole body seemed to enclose her.
He was too good at this; that was the trouble. The warning thought was there, but it did nothing to help. He was too tender, too sensual, too strong, too powerful to resist, and dangerous. Frighteningly dangerous. Excitingly and thrillingly dangerous.
Her head had fallen back as she’d instinctively allowed him even greater access to the sweet confines of her mouth, and he swiftly drained her response, taking everything, until she was limp and trembling against him.
‘Come on.’ His breathing was ragged and not quite steady when he at last lifted his head and released her. ‘Let’s get you home.’
Home? She stared at him for a second, utterly unable to pull herself together, and then he tucked her arm in his and forced her to begin walking along the wet, shiny pavement, the dull, opaque glow from the street lamp at the corner of the road making a soft circle of gold on the ground.
What would it be like if he really began to make love to her? She almost missed her footing, and his arm tightened as he drew her more securely against his protective bulk. If his kisses could reduce her to this, what would she feel then? Heaven. Heaven on earth—devastating, shattering, fantastic.
And when he left? a separate part of her brain asked coldly. Because he would leave; he had already told her so. An affair with Conrad would be a finite thing, subject to tight limitations even as it happened. He would terminate their liaison as he terminated certain business deals; swiftly and without regret.
She shivered, but it was nothing to do with the bitterly cold night air and all to do with the brief glimpse her heart had revealed of a bleak, hopeless, unthinkable future. He would eat her up and spit her out and she wouldn’t even leave a taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t set out to hurt her, she believed that, but the end result would be the same.
And it was that vision that enabled her to say, once they reached the door leading up to her flat, ‘Thanks for tonight, Conrad,’ in a tone that was intentionally dismissive as she extracted her arm from his. ‘I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘It should be me thanking you,’ he said quietly, his eyes glinting down at her. ‘You paid for the meal.’
‘But you paid for the wine and it was as much as the food,’ she returned smilingly, determined to keep it light and easy.
‘I gather I’m not being asked up for coffee?’ He didn’t sound particularly concerned about it, and perversely it caught her on the raw. It was no trouble for him to take her or leave her.
She didn’t trust her voice not to betray what she was feeling so she merely shook her head coolly.
And to her surprise he didn’t try to persuade her. He didn’t even attempt to kiss her goodnight, he merely nodded, his voice pleasant but somewhat remote as he said, ‘Goodnight, Sephy.’
That was it? She stared at him as he turned away with an easy smile and began walking down the street. After all he’d said and that kiss outside Giorgio’s that was it? He was leaving?
Too late she remembered he had said to James he would call a taxi to take him home; she should have offered the use of her phone at least. He would think her so boorish.
Without even thinking about it she called after him, ‘The taxi! Do you want to come up for a minute and call a taxi?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got my mobile with me.’ He patted the big pocket of his overcoat as he spoke, but his stride didn’t falter or check in any way and neither did he turn round.
And then he had reached the corner of the road and disappeared from view, still without looking back, and she was suddenly alone. And she felt alone, desperately alone.
She stood in the shadow of Jerry’s shop doorway for a full minute without moving as a dark, consuming heaviness fell over her like a blanket. She felt bitterly disappointed and tired and drained—exhausted with too many emotions she couldn’t handle or even define. But all connected with Conrad Quentin.
She had fought her own battles and overcome her own problems for years, and she knew that was what she had to keep on doing, that her stand against Conrad was right, but just at this precise moment she would have given the world for it all to be different. For him to be different.
But he wasn’t. She raised her head and stared up into the sky just as a scudding cloud revealed a brief glimpse of the white ethereal beauty of the crescent moon.
And tonight had told her one thing. She had to leave Quentin Dynamics, and soon, because if she didn’t, if she allowed him into her life and ultimately her body, he would destroy her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SEPHY was awoken early the next morning—after a night of continuous tossing and turning and weird, disturbing dreams—by the sound of the buzzer to her flat being pressed repeatedly.
She stumbled into the little hall, fastening the belt of her robe as she went, and spoke into the intercom in a voice still thick with sleep. ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Delivery for Miss Vincent.’ The female voice was young and bright and impossibly cheery for this early on a Saturday morning.
She was too dazed and drowsy to wonder what the delivery could be as she opened the flat door and stumbled down the stairs to the outer door into the street, but when she opened it and the most enormous bouquet was placed in her hands by a smiling, chirpy delivery girl it acted in the same way as a bucket of cold water straight in her sleepy face and suddenly she was wide awake.
‘Have a nice day.’ The pretty young face was openly envious as the girl glanced once more at the dozens of red roses and fragile baby’s breath the Cellophane held. ‘And, whoever he is, he’s sure no cheapskate,’ she added perkily over her shoulder as she turned towards the florist’s van parked at the edge of the kerb.
‘It’s serious, then?’
Sephy came out of her mesmerised state to find Jerry peering at her as the van drove off into the mounting morning traffic, and when he indicated the flowers she felt her face turn as red as the roses. Jerry had a way of always being around at the wrong time.
‘It’s not like that, really,’ she said quickly.
‘Oh, Sephy.’ He shook his head at her, his nice face deeply troubled. ‘I saw the way he looked at you.’
After the foul weather of the night before the January morning was crisp and bright but bitterly cold, and as its icy chill quickly penetrated her thick towelling robe she shivered before saying, her voice flat, ‘He’s the original love ’em and leave ’em type, Jerry, and I don’t go in for emotional suicide, besides which I don’t work for him any more—his old secretary’s back, and I’m thinking of leaving the firm.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Sounds sensible,’ he said quietly, ‘and Maisie will be glad to hear you might be around a bit more. We’ve missed you.’ He smiled at her, his face open and friendly.
There was an inflexion in the ‘we’ that made her ask, ‘You two are getting on well, then?’
‘Very well.’ It was warm and said far more than just the mere words indicated. ‘We might even make it permanent.’
‘I’m glad.’ She smiled at him and his smile widened, but as she stepped inside and closed the door she suddenly felt painfully alone in a way she hadn’t done for years. Which was stupid—really, really stupid, she told herself bracingly as she hurried up the stairs to the snug warmth of the flat, because nothing had changed. And she and Jerry would never have worked in a million years.
She laid the flowers on the breakfast bar and then, as a thought occurred to her, she reached for the little envelope attached to the Cellophane. She, along with Jerry, had assumed the flowers had come from Conrad, but they might not have. Although she couldn’t think of another person on the whole earth who would send her flowers—and so extravagantly!
‘They are soft and beautiful and sweetly perfumed, just like you,’ he had written. ‘But the thorns warn one to handle with respect, just like… C.’
Handle with respect! How could he be so manipulative and machiavellian and…and hypocritical? she asked herself furiously, before bursting into tears.
She felt better after a good cry, and once the roses were in water—all five dozen of them—she soaked in a hot bath for over an hour without letting her mind consider the future once.
She had just dried her hair into soft thick waves about her face, and was considering getting dressed, when the buzzer sounded again. It was going to be one of those mornings!
Maisie. It had to be Maisie. No doubt Jerry had related the latest and she had popped round to get the ‘i’s dotted and the ‘t’s crossed, as was Maisie’s wont, Sephy thought patiently. She flicked the switch on the intercom and said flatly, ‘Okay, Maisie, a coffee and a croissant, right?’ Whenever Maisie did this she always arrived with half a dozen croissants and a sweetly entreating smile and never failed to gain admittance.
