Читать книгу His Mistress For A Week - Melanie Milburne, Melanie Milburne - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

‘BUT OF COURSE you must take time off, my dear,’ Dougal McCrae, Clem’s boss, said when he came into the shop an hour later. ‘When do you want to leave?’

‘Now.’ Clem straightened the pens on her desk, each one exactly a centimetre apart. ‘It’s...kind of an emergency.’

His bushy brows came together in a concerned frown. ‘Not your mother again?’

‘Yes and no.’ Clem mentally crossed her fingers at her little white lie. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

He patted her on the shoulder like he was patting a pet of which he had grown terribly fond. ‘You’re a good girl, Clem. Always doing the right thing by your mother when as far as I can see she’s never done the right thing by you.’

Clem hadn’t told Dougal much about her background but her mother had come into the shop a number of times. Needless to say, he’d figured everything else out for himself. He was an excellent judge of character and each time her mother left he would look at Clem with an empathetic grimace and hand her the packet of chocolate digestives without saying a single word.

‘I’ll only be a week at the most,’ Clem said, slinging her bag over her shoulder and snatching up her coat off the back of her chair. ‘If there’s any change, I’ll let you know.’

‘Take all the time you need,’ Dougal said. ‘You deserve a holiday.’

Some holiday this was going to be.

* * *

It took Clem way too long to pack. That was another reason she rarely went away. She could never decide what to take and ended up taking too much. It came from years of having to pack at short notice when her mother would get sick of her latest lover and announce they were leaving. Now. Clem had flown in a heart-flapping panic every single time. She’d always packed Jamie’s things first because that was what big sisters did, especially when you had a mother who couldn’t spell, let alone understand, the concept of organisation. But it had often meant she hadn’t got to pack her own things in time for their mother’s theatrical flounce out the door.

But these days Clem was too organised. She didn’t have a crooked knife or fork in her drawer. The cups and mugs were all perfectly aligned, the handles turned to the right. The plates and bowls were in neat stacks in neat rows. The glasses were lined up like soldiers ready for an inspection parade. The clothes in her wardrobe were positioned according to colour—not that she had a lot of it in her wardrobe. That was the problem with having been fat as a teenager; she had got used to wearing dark clothing to disguise her shape and had never really thrown the habit.

Deciding what clothes to take and what to leave behind was a problem. What if it was hot? What if it rained? The French Riviera had a much warmer climate than London in July but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t throw up some inclement weather now and again.

Then there was the issue of shoes. She had different pairs for each day of the week. Some people didn’t step on cracks in the footpath. Clem didn’t wear the same pair of shoes two days running.

Then there was her favourite mug, Jamie’s first ever present to her when he was eight years old. She had her first cup of tea in it every morning. Without fail. It was part of the structure of her day. She needed it to feel secure. If she didn’t have tea in her special mug, then who knew what might happen?

It wasn’t worth the risk.

There was still no word from Jamie in spite of Clem leaving further messages, including one she left on his voicemail that bordered on her begging pitifully. Not something she was prone to do under normal circumstances, but nothing about this situation was even remotely normal. Ever since Alistair had told her he had information the teenagers were in the French Riviera, her mind kept going back to a memory of a brief holiday she and Jamie had been on when they were young.

One of their mother’s boyfriends had come from a village half an hour out from Nice. His parents had owned a holiday cottage in the hills and Clem remembered being insanely jealous that someone had not one home but two when she hadn’t known whose home she would be sleeping in from one day to the next. Even more enviable to her twelve-year-old mind had been the fact her mother’s boyfriend’s parents only used the cottage a couple of times a year. Two times a year! A caretaker living up the road checked on things in between times.

The muggy July air was like a hot breath against her face when Clem walked to where her car was parked further down her street. Her tiny flat didn’t have its own parking space but one of her elderly neighbours who no longer drove had offered Clem her space. Clem did Mavis’s shopping for her and took her to doctor’s appointments in exchange for the space. It was worth it...sort of. Eighty-four-year-old Mavis could talk. Really talk. If there were any iron pots with legs still on them in this neighbourhood, then Clem would like to see them. Clem was little more than human punctuation whenever Mavis got going. All that was required from her was: ‘Oh?’ ‘Mmm...’ ‘Aha.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Really?’ interjected at select intervals.

Clem kept her back to Mavis’s house as she stuffed her bulging suitcase on the back seat of her car, as the boot was too small. But it was like trying to push a hippo through a letterbox. She shoved and shoved. Swore under her breath. Shoved some more. Swore out loud.

The sound of Mavis’s front door opening made Clem’s heart sink. Shoot me now.

‘Off on holiday are you, dear?’ Mavis called out.

Clem turned and clenched her teeth behind her tight smile. ‘Just a short break. I was going to call in and tell you but I’m in a tearing hurry and—’

‘Where are you off to? Somewhere exciting?’

‘Erm... I’m kind of winging it.’

‘Are you going on your own?’

That’s the plan. ‘Yes.’

Mavis gave a beaming smile. ‘I bet you meet someone. I feel it in my bones. A summer holiday romance would be marvellous for you. I had one of those—did I tell you about it? It was on a cruise to the Mediterranean. I was—’

‘I’ll send you a postcard, shall I?’ Clem said, giving her bag a shove with her bottom. Might as well put it to some use since it did her no other favours.

‘Mind you, you have to be careful these days,’ Mavis said. ‘You don’t want your identity stolen. A friend of mine had that happen to her. Did I tell you about it?’

I wish someone would steal my neighbour. Clem kept her rictus smile in place. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be super-careful.’

‘Oh, look,’ Mavis said. ‘Here comes a nice man to help you with your bag.’

What nice man? There weren’t any nice men living in this street. None that she had met, anyway. It was full of little old ladies and cats. Clem looked to her right to see Alistair Hawthorne walking towards her as casually as you pleased. Her heart began to hammer. This could not be happening.

‘Going somewhere?’

Clem knew even her bottom had no hope of hiding her bag. ‘Just...erm...taking my washing to the laundromat.’

‘That looks like a lot of dirty linen to have out in public.’

You have no idea. ‘Why are you here?’ Clem said. ‘I thought the arrangement was for you to pick me up at the shop tomorrow.’

A knowing light shone in his eyes. ‘I thought we should get an early start.’

Her stomach dropped like a mallet on a block of wood. Clunk. She’d hoped to get off by herself. To conduct her own search without the disturbing company of a man she would do anything to avoid. ‘But I told you I wasn’t going with you.’

‘Which is why I’m here now to make sure you do.’

Clem threw him a gimlet glare. ‘You can’t kidnap me. It’s against the law.’

Something in his expression made the floor of her belly shiver like sand being trickled. ‘So is car and money theft.’

She swallowed a double knot of panic. Think. Think. Think. ‘How do you know you’re searching in the right place? You could travel all that way for nothing.’

‘My stepsister sent a text to a friend from a casino in Monte Carlo a couple of hours ago.’

Clem frowned. ‘Geez. How much money did she have on her? Monte Carlo isn’t exactly a backpacker’s destination.’

‘It’s not her money she’s spending.’

‘Your problem, not mine.’

His eyes never wavered from hers. ‘Our problem.’

Don’t remind me. Clem turned back to her bag, which was half in and half out of her car. She blew away the wisps of hair that had fallen around her face and gave the bag another hard shove.

‘Here. Let me.’

His body came up behind her, one of his hands reaching past her to take the handle of her bag. It was the most intimate contact she’d had with a man since...well, for a long time.

Clem tried to duck out of the way but somehow got tangled in his limbs. One of his arms blocked her escape on one side while the other held her bag on the other. She tried to step past his long legs but ended up doing a weird little dance with him. God knew what this looked like from Mavis’s window.

‘Is he your new man?’ Mavis called out loud enough for the neighbours to hear. In the next street. In the next borough. Possibly in America.

Clem stepped over Alistair’s long leg and tried to get her lungs to inflate. ‘No. He’s just a...someone I used to know.’

‘You can’t fool me,’ Mavis said with a teasing smile. ‘Look at you, blushing like a schoolgirl on her first date. It’s about time you got a nice man in your life. How long’s it been? Two, three years?’

Four. Clem wasn’t game enough to look in Alistair’s direction but she had a feeling he was smiling. Or smirking, more like. ‘It’s not what you think, Mavis. He’s like a brother to me. Our parents used to be in a relationship.’ She went for the knockout punch to wipe that smile off his face and added, ‘We were kind of like The Brady Bunch.’

Alistair’s body brushed Clem from behind. ‘Fess up, darling.’ He put his hands on the tops of her shoulders and gave them a light squeeze. ‘You’ve always been a little bit in love with me.’

So not true. Well, maybe she’d had a moment when she’d first met him, when she’d blushed to the roots of her hair and gone all starry-eyed. But it had only been a moment. Two seconds max. Trust him to remind her of it.

Clem put her heel on his toe and pressed down. Hard. She wished she were wearing stilettoes. Ballet flats didn’t quite cut it. He didn’t flinch at all. It was as if she had tried to flatten a flea with a feather. She was acutely aware of the wall of his firm body touching her, from her shoulder blades to her hips. Her bottom was way too close to his groin. It stirred all sorts of wicked imaginings inside her brain. And her body. Oh, dear God, what was happening to her body? It was leaning back against him like it had a mind of its own. Searching for the evidence of his arousal. Yikes! Finding it. ‘I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You,’ she said in an undertone, punctuating each word with another push down of her foot.

He leaned down and began to nuzzle the side of her neck, the sexy scrape of his late-in-the-day stubble sending a frisson down her spine. His warm breath smelt of mint and coffee. Not the cheap instant stuff she had in her flat but the good stuff. ‘I’m going to kill you right back. Slowly.’ His voice was a low, deep burr that reverberated deep in her core like a tuning fork struck and left to hum.

Mavis clasped her hands like a fairy godmother enormously satisfied with her day’s work. ‘Have a wonderful time, you gorgeous lovebirds. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

Clem pulled out of Alistair’s hold and turned and threw him a look that would have blistered paint. ‘You think you’ve won this, don’t you?’

His eyes had a determined glint that made every knob of her spine shudder. ‘Get in the car.’

Every cell in her body wanted to defy him. Every pore tightened with anger. Fury. Rage. She could barely stand still with the force of it thundering through her. But making a scene in front of her nosy neighbour was not something she was prepared to do. There were other ways to skin a cat, and Alistair Hawthorne’s pelt was one she wanted to take her time removing while inflicting as much excruciating pain as possible.

Clem slipped into the passenger seat, keeping her fake smile in place for the sake of Mavis until they were out of sight. ‘If you think I’m going to speak another word to you then you can think again,’ she said. ‘You’re the most obnoxious, control-freaky man I’ve ever met. As if I’d ever imagine myself in love with you. What a joke. You’re the last man I’d ever be interested in. I hated you ten years ago and I hate you now. You’re a stuck-up snob who thinks you can order people about like puppets. Well, listen up, because my strings are not going to be pulled by you. No freaking way.’

The silence continued for three blocks.

Clem cast him a sideways glance. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

He flicked her an ironic look. ‘I thought you weren’t going to speak to me?’

Clem pinched her lips together and turned back to face the front. She waited another four blocks before speaking. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘The airport. I have a flight booked.’

She swung her gaze back to him. ‘You were that certain you’d get me to come?’ Ack. Probably not the best choice of words.

Even though he was still facing the traffic, she could see from his expression her unintentional innuendo had amused him. ‘But of course.’

Clem didn’t care for his confident tone. Sexually confident men annoyed her. They were so smug about their prowess but they didn’t factor in that every woman was different. It wasn’t ‘one size fits all’, or at least not in her experience. It made her wonder whom he was currently seeing. She’d seen a photo in a gossip magazine a few months ago of him at some architectural awards ceremony with a gorgeous blonde with an eye-popping figure. The sort of figure Clem would never get even if she never ate a morsel of food again. ‘What does your girlfriend think about you flying off to France with me?’

‘I’m not in a relationship at the moment.’

‘When was your last one?’

He slanted her a glance. ‘Why do you want to know? Are you thinking of replacing her?’

Clem coughed out a disparaging laugh. ‘As if.’

Another silence ticked past. A silence that seemed to make a mockery of her denial. She couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have sex with him. Not selfish sex, like the men she’d been with. But satisfying sex. Sensual sex. Sex that made her whole body sing with delight. Not that hers had done any singing lately. There were occasional solo performances but nothing that would make the chandeliers—if she had any—rattle.

‘What about you?’ Alistair said. ‘Should I be on the watch out for a jealous lover coming at me with a baseball bat?’

Clem considered inventing a boyfriend. Someone decent and respectable. Someone who would stand up for her and do all the things she dreamed a man in love with her would do. Someone who would make her feel special, treasured, adored. It seemed pathetic to admit she was single when everyone her age was out having a good time; lately her idea of a good time was a family-sized block of chocolate and a good book. ‘I’m enjoying my independence. Not having to fit in with someone else’s timetable. No waiting for the phone to ring. No boring weekends watching football or fighting over the remote. Bliss.’

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Bliss indeed.’

‘Have you ever lived with anyone?’ Why the heck are you asking that?

‘No. I too like my independence.’

‘So where does Harriet live just now?’

The tension was back around his mouth. ‘With me, but I’ve booked her into boarding school starting next term.’

Clem wondered if that was what had triggered the runaway caper. Had Harriet felt shunted aside? How could she not with her mother haring off to chase after some new lover? Being dumped with your mother’s ex’s adult son during the summer holidays was hardly something to be happy about. The poor girl was probably desperate to find a place where she was wanted. It was a pity she had chosen Clem’s brother, however. Jamie wasn’t exactly mature enough to take care of himself, let alone a partner. ‘How did she feel about going to boarding school?’

‘She’s a child. I didn’t give her a choice. It’s the best thing for her.’ Bang. Bang. Bang. The words came out like a drill sergeant’s command. No wonder the poor kid had flown the coop. The head honcho wasn’t exactly Mr Let’s Negotiate.

‘Maybe you should’ve discussed her options with her,’ Clem said. ‘You know, had a family discussion.’

The look he gave her would have shrivelled even the hardiest of Yucca plants. ‘She’s not my family. She’s nothing to do with me. But I couldn’t put her out on the street, for God’s sake.’

‘Why didn’t you leave her with your father?’

The question hung in the air between them for a second or two too long. Long enough for Clem to join some dots. Some ugly dots.

‘That wasn’t an option.’ Alistair’s tone was curt. Do-not-even-go-there curt.

Clem had never liked his father. How could she warm to a man who had abandoned his terminally ill wife to hook up with another woman? Lionel Hawthorne was a self-serving charmer, a fact she’d seen on their very first meeting. No amount of money or presents splashed around had changed her opinion of him. But did Alistair’s tone suggest his father was even worse than she had suspected?

‘Are there no other relatives?’ Clem asked. ‘Doesn’t she have a father? Or aunts or uncles or grandparents?’

‘There’s no one. Apart from her mother, but you can forget about her.’ His cynical tone suggested he had already tried that avenue and failed.

‘Where is her mother?’

His hands were gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to strangle it or the subject of their conversation. ‘Sunning herself on some beach in Mexico with a drug lord, probably.’

Clem chewed at her lower lip. This was sounding all too familiar, like her experience of growing up with a mother who’d changed partners faster than other people changed their mind. Some of the men were nice—like the one whose parents owned the cottage outside of Nice. But others were the very opposite of nice. They were nasty. Nasty men who exploited her naïve and trusting mother, encouraging her addictive tendencies without measuring the consequences for her children. Partying, drinking and child-rearing did not mix. Which was why Clem was so determined to keep Jamie from going down that path. ‘What about the authorities? Like Social Services and so on? Have you contacted them to take care of her?’

‘Harriet’s been in foster care in the past,’ he said. ‘It didn’t go well. She’s been through several caseworkers as the system is overloaded and underfunded. I thought I’d do the right thing by her and get her into a good school to improve her chances of a future. But did I get any thanks for offering to foot the bill? No.’

‘You have to talk to teenagers,’ Clem said. ‘You can’t just issue them with ultimatums or plans set in stone. It’s all about negotiation.’

He gave her another withering look. ‘Like you’re doing so brilliantly with your brother?’

Clem felt a blush steal over her cheeks. So? She was a crap stand-in parent. She knew that. Didn’t need to be reminded of it. ‘Teenage boys are hard work. They need a good male role-model. I’m doing my best but I’m well aware it’s not enough. Nowhere near enough.’

‘Where’s his father?’

Clem knew if she didn’t tell him he would make it his business to find out—if he hadn’t already. ‘In jail.’

‘For?’

‘Armed robbery.’

‘Nice.’

‘Yep.’ She blew out a jaded breath. ‘Real Father of the Year material.’

A small silence passed.

‘Where’s yours?’ Alistair said.

‘Dead.’

She felt his gaze swing her way but she kept staring straight ahead. ‘How long ago did he die?’ he asked.

‘Fifteen years.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Clem gave a grating laugh. ‘Don’t be.’ I just hope he stays ‘dead.’

‘Did he have much to do with you while you were growing up?’

‘No, he was the epitome of the absent father. Even when he was with us he wasn’t with us, if you get my drift.’

He turned the car for the parking area at Heathrow. ‘Unfortunately, I do.’

* * *

Alistair handed over his keys to the valet-parking attendant and then took Clem’s bag. ‘What have you got in here? It weighs more than the damn hire car.’

Defiance sparked and swirled in her brown eyes. ‘I’m not a toothbrush and a clean pair of knickers type. I need...stuff.’

He began to roll the bag but one of the wheels was wonky. He crouched down and fiddled with it but it came off in his hand. He swore under his breath and straightened. ‘We need to get you a new bag.’

Something flashed in her gaze. Pride...or was it panic? ‘What for? It’ll do. I’m not going to unpack my luggage in the middle of the airport. Anyway, I can’t afford a new bag.’

‘My treat.’

Her 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.