His Mistress for a Week Read online

  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 you.’

  Lucky me, indeed. Especially as Alistair was standing right beside her to witness every humiliating second. He looked down at her when they were waved through. ‘I take it you weren’t named after a grandparent or maiden aunt?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘You could have it changed by deed poll.’

  ‘I’ve considered it but my mother would never speak to me again if I did,’ Clem said. Which could be a good thing, come to think of it.

  ‘I thought I was unlucky with Enoch.’

  Clem glanced at him. ‘Your middle name is Enoch?’

  He gave her a rueful look. ‘There are hundreds if not thousands of Biblical names I would’ve preferred. But it was my mother’s grandfather’s name.’ His lips moved in the form of a shrug. ‘Family tradition and all that.’

  ‘Mmm, well, my mother wasn’t following any family tradition other than to get pregnant at fifteen, like her mother did,’ Clem said. ‘She conceived me under the light of the moon, apparently. She wanted a permanent reminder of that night. Apart from me, of course.’

  She waited for him to laugh. To rub her embarrassment in, but he continued walking along the concourse to the departure gate with that same deadpan expression.

  ‘What’s your brother’s middle name?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Here’s the thing.’ Clem rolled her eyes. ‘He doesn’t have one because his father didn’t believe in them.’

  His gaze flicked to hers. ‘A lucky escape, then?’

  ‘Unbelievably.’

  * * *

  Clem sat down in business class as if she did it every day of her life. No point showing Alistair how gauche and out of place she felt. This was one fish that could step out of her fishbowl...well, for a little while at least. She could do sophisticated. She could drink the champagne and eat the gorgeous little canapés like the best of them. She could lie back with her feet up and flick idly through the endless supply of glossy magazines as if she didn’t have a care in the world...or a wayward brother who was currently running amok on the French Riviera with her mortal enemy’s stepsister.

  Three champagnes into the flight and Clem was feeling relaxed. Not sleepy relaxed, chatty relaxed. I’ve-forgotten-all-about-the-embarrassing-luggage-incident relaxed. It was one of the reasons she rarely drank—apart from the expense. She never knew how it was going to affect her. Sometimes it made her sleepy. Sometimes it made her talk too much. But this time it was having an effect she had never experienced before. Her body wanted...contact. Sensual contact. Male-to-female contact. She turned to look at Alistair, who was frowning over a document he was reading. ‘Where did you last go on holiday?’

  He turned over a page without looking at her. ‘New York, but it was more work than leisure.’

  The plane they were on was one of the smaller commercial ones so the seats were closer together than they would have been in a larger airbus. Her hand crept to where his arm was resting on the armrest, as if it was controlled by something other than her rational brain. She watched it in a state of mild fascination. What the heck was in that champagne? Could she really be reaching out to touch the dark hairs of his forearm showing from below the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt? Could she really be pressing close enough to feel the hard muscles of his arm against the soft swell of her breasts? Close enough to breathe in the scent of his body—that mix of cologne and clean, classy man that so bewitched her senses?

  He glanced at her with an unreadable expression. ‘If you wanted the aisle seat instead of the window then why didn’t you say something earlier?’

  Clem’s gaze went to his mouth as if pulled by a force outside of her control. The contours of his lips fascinated her. The top lip was thinner than the lower one, and the dark forest of stubble surrounding it made her want to trail her fingertips down that lean and tanned jaw to feel his roughness catch on her softness. She couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to have those lips on hers. She could barely remember the last time she had been kissed. She had a feeling if Alistair’s determined mouth came down on hers she would never forget it. Ever. Ever. Ever. ‘Do you ever smile?’ she asked.

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  His gaze issued a warning. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  Clem blinked like a child feigning innocence while its hand was still stuck in the cookie jar. ‘You think I was going to kiss you?’

  ‘Either that or crawl inside my skin.’

  ‘I don’t even like you.’

  His hooded gaze went to her mouth. ‘A bit of dislike never got in the way of good sex.’

  Don’t think about him having sex. Just don’t. And certainly not with you. ‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Good sex, I mean.’

  A hint of a smile ghosted his mouth. ‘How much champagne did you drink?’

  Clearly too much. ‘That’s the thing, see?’ Clem sat back in her seat and picked up a popular women’s magazine, quickly flicking over the How to Have Multiple Orgasms article. She would be happy with one. ‘I would have to be really drunk to get it on with you.’ I have to be drunk to get it on with anyone.

  ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  Why? All her self-doubts showed up like ants at a honey spill. Because I’m not skinny enough? Because you once saw me with pimples and puppy fat and can’t see me any other way? Of course he wouldn’t be interested in someone like her. Not with her background. Not with her couldn’t-take-her-anywhere-without-cringing mother looming large in her life. He would only choose a woman who would fit in with his high-class lifestyle. Clem didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in a heatwave. Not in hell. Not ever.

  Not that she wanted it.

  She could find her own man.

  Eventually.

  ‘Good to know,’ she said and buried her nose in the magazine.

  * * *

  Alistair could have done with a stretch of his legs but Clem had fallen asleep with her head resting on his shoulder. His nostrils were tingling with the scent of her perfume, an alluring mix of summer flowers with a grace note of something that was unique to her. The magazine she had been reading had slipped to the floor, her hands now resting on her lap, the fingers long and slim but the nails bitten almost to the quick. What made her indulge in such a childish habit? Was she insecure? Worried? Anxious? But then, who wouldn’t be, with the kind of family she had?

  Not that he could talk. If he thought too much about his father’s behaviour, he’d be chewing his nails back to his shoulders.

  Clem gave a
murmur and shifted in her seat, turning her head so her hair tickled his chin. He had the inexplicable desire to stroke her silky head. Her body was soft and feminine with curves in all the right places. Beautiful curves. Tempting curves. Curves he wanted to put his hands on and—

  Keep your hands off her.

  The alarm bell of his conscience was a timely reminder to keep his boundaries secure. He hadn’t had a relationship for a while; that was the problem. Not that he was a sex addict or anything. He had a very practical approach to his physical needs. If he had time in his busy schedule for a relationship, he invested in one. Lately his work as chief architect on a multi-national project had been a priority, so too dealing with his father’s screw-ups. Or screw-downs, which seemed more accurate.

  His father’s taste in women appalled Alistair. After twenty-five years of marriage to his poised, elegant and articulate mother, Helene, his father had taken up with the very opposite type of woman. Brash and loud, in-your-face gold-diggers. Women who cared more about their sexual desires than their children.

  Alistair wasn’t against marriage and commitment. Far from it. He planned to settle down one day with a woman who shared similar interests and values. Build a life together, have a family and do all the things his parents had done with him before his mother had become ill. He wouldn’t be the sort of husband his father had been. He had no problem with commitment and faithfulness. He believed in it...at the right time and with the right person. But he wasn’t going to make that commitment until he was sure it was the right person. He couldn’t stomach the thought of doing what his father had done—was still doing—working his way through a host of unsuitable partners in a pathetic attempt to avoid spending even half a day alone.

  Everything had changed once his mother had got that devastating diagnosis. His father hadn’t had the decency to wait until his wife had died of liver cancer before he’d taken up with another woman. It was as if the prospect of losing Helene had triggered something in him. The loss of Alistair’s baby brother, Oliver, at two years of age had been the first stumble. Not that Alistair had known his father had strayed during that tragic time; his mother had forgiven the affair and done her best to rebuild their relationship. But once she’d got sick that same panic button had been pressed and this time there had been no way of turning it off. No amount of lecturing or pleading from Alistair had worked. His father had been like a runaway train. Unstoppable.

  Alistair had desperately tried to keep his mother in the dark about his father’s affair with Clem’s mother. But Brandi had taken it upon herself to turn up at the hospice and introduce herself as Lionel’s new partner. Her reasoning had been she wanted to assure Helene her husband would be in ‘good hands.’

  But the anger Alistair felt about his father’s affair had gone up five-hundred-and-fifty-thousand notches when he’d gone to his parents’ home to collect some fresh clothing for his mother because his father had been ‘too busy.’ He’d found Clem in his childhood bedroom lying in wait for him on his bed, fresh from a shower. Seeing her young, lushly curved body curled up there in a towel had made something in him snap. He’d been furious with her but even more furious with himself for feeling a flicker of lust at her gauche attempt to seduce him.

  He barely remembered what he’d said to her. All he recalled was it had been long and heated, a blistering tirade that had vented all of his rage on her sixteen-year-old shoulders. If he had upset her she’d showed no sign of it. Not then. She had stood there with the towel wrapped around her body, a sullen look on her face, and a defiant I-don’t-care-what-you-say-to-me glare in her eyes. But, when he’d come back the following day to pack up the rest of his mother’s things, he had found a long scratch mark on his car from tailgate to front fender as if someone had taken a key or a screwdriver and driven it deep into the paintwork.

  That was what he had to remember when dealing with Clem. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. She wasn’t to be trusted. She was one enemy he was going to have to keep close.

  Too close for comfort.

  * * *

  Clem woke just as they were coming in to land. She blinked and straightened from where she had been resting on Alistair’s shoulder. Dead embarrassing. Just as well she hadn’t drooled. Or snored. Yikes. Maybe she had. ‘Sorry I creased your shirt,’ she said. ‘You should’ve pushed me away.’

  ‘I was grateful for the peace and quiet.’

  She glanced at him but his expression was inscrutable. So, maybe she hadn’t snored. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  His eyes met hers. ‘The plan?’

  Clem kept her gaze trained on his while trying to ignore the magnetic pull of his mouth. It was like a force inside her body with its own chanting mantra. Look at his mouth. Look at his mouth. Look at his mouth. ‘Yeah, after we land. Where do we start?’

  ‘We start by picking up the hire car. Then we’ll find a hotel.’

  Clem’s heart jumped like it had been zapped with defibrillator paddles. She hadn’t got as far as thinking about accommodation. Of course they would have to find a hotel. Not that she could afford anywhere flash. She could barely afford a trailer park. ‘Two rooms, right?’

  ‘No.’

  This time her heart skipped so fast it would have won a jump-rope competition. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  His eyes had an unmistakable glint in them. A determined I’m-not-letting-you-out-of-my-sight glint. ‘It will be cheaper to share a suite.’

  Clem’s stomach swerved like a novice skater. Share? ‘But you can afford to stay anywhere you like.’

  ‘True, but you can’t.’

  ‘You’re expecting me to...to pay my own way?’

  ‘Would that be a problem?’

  Nothing about his expression suggested he was mocking her but Clem felt it all the same. He was reminding her of the differences in their backgrounds. He only stayed in five-star venues. The only stars she could afford to sleep under were the ones in the sky. ‘I hate to be pedantic, but it was your idea to come on this wild-goose chase,’ Clem said. ‘Why then should I pay anything?’

  One corner of his mouth flickered as if he was fighting the urge to smile. Or gloat. ‘We’ll share a suite but not a bed.’

  Sharing the same hemisphere was bad enough. How was she going to cope with sharing a suite? How was she going to keep her...routines—she refused to call them obsessions—out of his sight? He would mock her. Laugh at her. Make fun of her like she was some sort of freak. She never shared a room with anyone. Not since she’d been a kid trying to keep Jamie safe from her mother’s partners, who thought smacking kids was the way to get them to behave. She hadn’t even stayed overnight with her own partners. Not that she’d had many of them.

  She hated the thought of someone seeing her before she could prepare herself. What if she had a linen crease on her face? What if her hair was a mess? What if she talked in her sleep? What if she slept with her mouth open? She would be awake all night worrying. Not that she didn’t spend most nights like that, but still. ‘I’d like my own suite. I insist on it. I’ll pay for it. I have enough money.’ Big, fat lie.

  ‘Fine, but I’ve booked the Hotel de Paris.’

  Clem’s stomach dropped like a stone—a headstone. ‘Can’t I stay somewhere a little...erm...more economical?’

  ‘No.’ The one word had a note of finality about it. Not so much a line in the sand as a line set in concrete.

  Nothing annoyed Clem more than intransigence. People who wouldn’t be flexible. People who wouldn’t compromise. It made everything in her tighten up. Pull back. Gird up for a battle. What right did he have to dictate where she would or wouldn’t sleep? No one, and especially not him, was going to tell her where she was going to spend the night. She would rather sleep in a lion’s den.

  She smiled a secret smile.

  This was where her expertise at skinning stubborn cats came in. One night sharing a suite with her and he would be glad to let her have her own suite.

  He would pr
obably pay double—no, triple—for it.

  * * *

  Clem pretended to be sulking on the way to the hotel in Monte Carlo. She gave one-word answers on the rare occasions he addressed a word to her. She couldn’t wait to hatch her plan. It gave her a delicious thrill to think she could outsmart him.

  But when they pulled up in front of the Hotel de Paris she knew she would never be able to afford a cup of coffee in a place like this, let alone a suite. It had recently undergone extensive renovations, and the style, the glamour, the opulence were nothing short of breath-taking. Clem had never been in a place so stunning. The grand foyer with its flowers, marble, chandeliers and antique furniture was a visual feast. Her eyeballs ached from taking it all in. She could have stood there all day with her mouth hanging open.

  But all the beautiful people coming and going made her feel like a common brown sparrow turning up at an exotic bird show. She didn’t fit in. She looked out of place with her colourless clothes. People were looking at her, wondering what she was doing there; she was sure of it.

  Had Alistair done this deliberately? Checked them into the most glamorous hotel to emphasise the difference in their lifestyles? There was no way she could split the bill. She couldn’t afford the tips to the staff let alone the accommodation. Was he leaving her with no option but to stay with him under his surveillance?

  If so, it was working.

  The suite they were assigned was bigger than Clem’s bedsit four times over. It had two bedrooms, a sitting room and a luxurious bathroom. The soft furnishings were a stylish mix of cream and gold and white, beautifully offset by the antique furniture pieces that blended so well with the modern beds and sofas, with occasional splashes of colour in the scatter cushions.

  Once she was settled into her room, Clem checked her phone for messages. Still nothing from Jamie. But her mother had left a text asking for a bit of help with money. ‘A bit of help’ could mean anything from a few pounds to a couple of hundred. Or more. It was the same pattern that had continued since Clem had got her first job in her teens. Her mother couldn’t manage her own money. Not that she had ever had any, but any she did manage to get her hands on slipped through her fingers as if it had been greased.