The Accidental Mistress (36 page)

‘A very selfish one, though,’ he said. ‘You know that it’s all part of my strategy to coax you to live here permanently with me, don’t you?’

She put her hand on his. ‘Yes … I do know that. But it’s still kind.’

John laughed softly. ‘Am I so transparent?’

‘A bit.’

But he wasn’t, though, not all the time. As she nibbled a bit more toast, and drank more tea, chatting idly with John, watching the television, Lizzie couldn’t help wondering about the layers upon layers of him that were still opaque to her. The details of his past, his relationships, his family; the inside stories that no amount of looking up on the internet would ever reveal. The spectre of Clara rose up, escaping the temporary hiding place afforded it by fever and illness. This … this woman was too tangible to be a phantom. And her grip on John reached inexorably across the years, imbued with power by the sacrifice he’d made for her.

She was definitely the woman he rowed with in New York. The one who made him angry.

Which meant he’d seen her recently. She wasn’t just a
powerful memory. She was still around … and perhaps she wanted him back?

Don’t be stupid, Lizzie
, she told herself for the hundredth time.
You’re the one he’s with. You’re the one he’s nursing through a summer virus. If he still cared about this Clara the way he used to, he wouldn’t even
be
here and he probably wouldn’t have ever bought this house. He cares for
you
now, so stop nit-picking about his exes like an idiotic jealous thing.

But later, as a new wave of exhaustion took her over, and she let John tuck her up again, and mute the television so she could sleep, those nit-picking thoughts still nipped and snapped at her weary consciousness.

John set aside the papers he’d been studying. It was hopeless. He couldn’t concentrate. He had to focus on Lizzie, and Lizzie alone.

She seemed feverish again, asleep, yet stirring from time to time, muttering. He ached to be able to hold her, as if the contact could erase what ailed her, yet if she was running a high temperature, he’d most probably make things worse.

Intellectually, he knew it was just a mild summer virus that had afflicted her. It would be over in a day or two, and as a healthy, vital young woman, she’d be quickly back to her magnificent feisty, seductive form, challenging his mind and driving him crazy with lust. But right at this moment, she was ill, and, apart from ensuring her comfort, he couldn’t do a damn thing to change that. Even with all his resources, he couldn’t just snap his fingers and make her well again.

He smiled wryly, remembering her protestations about looking like death warmed up, and being all sweaty and horrible. Bloody hell, she didn’t look horrible to him! She was adorable. All tousled up, delicately pale, yet still his wild,
bold Lizzie. The curve of her shoulder was visible above the quilt, and the exquisite, vulnerable patch of skin where her t-shirt had twisted to one side speared him. He wanted to lean over and kiss her there, lick the saltiness of her fevered skin, perhaps nibble a little, while sliding his hands beneath the covers to draw her close to him. The warmth of her body next to him cried out to all his senses; she was all colours, scents and textures that delighted him.

Closing his eyes, he imagined sliding beneath the covers with her, and their clothes magically disappearing so they could be skin to hot skin. The curves of her gorgeous bottom and the sleek lines of her thighs would be heaven, cupped in the palms of his hands. The tender, silky contours of her cunt would weep for him, and when he stroked her clitoris, she’d gasp and moan in pleasure. His heart and his cock ached, wanting her. Wanting her hard.

He grimaced. He was fully erect, ready to fuck.

What kind of a fucking, perverted beast are you, man? You’re doing it again … She’s ill, you pig. She’s ill. Give it a rest!

And yet he wanted her fiercely. It was wrong, but it had happened. He should leave her in peace and let her sleep; just check back on her from time to time. He should free her from his presence, which was possibly – in fact, probably – accounting for her unease, and the lack of a true repose. Him … and her speculations about Clara, he suspected, guessing that Rose had been just as forthright as she normally was.

But he couldn’t go. He couldn’t leave. He had to stay; on guard. Protecting his beloved against things he couldn’t change, the past, and things he couldn’t alter now, even if he’d give the world to be able to.

And he had to be here, even if his own tumescence was bloody killing him.

Oh Lizzie, please come and live with me. My precious, wonderful, rare and amazing Lizzie. I’ll do anything …

But as she stirred again, still muttering beneath her breath as she dozed, he wondered if he would or could do anything she wanted. Everything she deserved.

He owed her total honesty. He owed her answers to her questions. After all, he was pretty sure she kept nothing much from him.

And yet, the prospect of bringing Clara … and prison … out into the open, repelled him just as much as he feared they might repel Lizzie. He could hardly bear the thought of her knowing all, and feeling disappointment in him. Maybe even revulsion. He’d been irredeemably stupid in his life. Just as stupid as he’d been smart and successful. It was long ago now, but still hovering around, still possessing the power to upset this delicate, wondrous thing he had now, with this woman.

As if she’d read his troubled thoughts, she rolled over, her arm flailing out, and falling across him. Her hand rested against his thigh, mercifully not too close to the great, hard knot of his erection, and her slender seamstress’s fingers flexed and curved, holding on to him.

With infinite care, he placed his hand over hers, enfolding it.

I think I love you, Lizzie … if I really, truly know what that means. And I’d tell you, if I dare, but I don’t want to hurt you. It might not be the kind of love you want, and almost certainly not the calibre of love you deserve.

And yet, as he sat there, with the woman he adored restless beside him, he knew he was a coward. A coward for not admitting his love, and a coward for concealing aspects of his life from her.

But I will do better, Lizzie. I will try. Even if I can’t give you all
the answers at once, I’ll do my best to reveal everything, eventually. Even if it means I might risk losing you in consequence.

Thinking that, he felt the sudden grip of fatalism, of lightness. The weight of decision was out of his hands now.

The whole fate of his happiness, from this day forward, lay in the smooth and gentle palm that rested against his thigh.

And for a man accustomed to control that was both terrifying … and wonderful.

Later, when Lizzie woke again, she felt better. Not as hot and light-headed, just low on energy, as if her body was healing but still wasn’t quite sure of itself.

Turning to one side, she found John still there, his eyes closed. It was twilight, and the room was not yet lit. He might have managed to nod off … perhaps?

Are you sleeping? With me here?

But his eyes snapped open almost immediately, sharp and completely lucid, with none of the slight blur of someone who’d been dozing.

‘How do you feel now?’ Straightening up, he laid the back of his hand against her brow. ‘Any better? You’re not as hot.’

Lizzie shuffled, managed to sit up, and the fact she didn’t immediately need to lie down again confirmed her assessment. She
was
better this time.

‘I … I think I feel slightly human again.’ She grinned at him. ‘But I still feel horribly grungy, and in need of a bath.’

He reached out and brushed her tangled hair back from her face, his eyes locked on hers, searching, reading.

‘Are you sure? That you feel better? I don’t want you
falling and cracking your head in the bathroom.’ He cradled her chin, his fingers sure and cool.

‘Please … I really, really need a bath. I think I’ll feel even more better, if I have one. And clean my teeth again and everything.’

He smiled, and leaned over, kissing her forehead in a chaste gesture.

‘OK, then, but leave this door open and the bathroom unlocked again, and when you’re ready, give me a shout, and I’ll come and wash your back, just to make sure you’re not up to anything you shouldn’t be.’ He winked, then reached for the robe spread over the bottom of the bed. Swirling it around her shoulders, he helped her into it. When she swung her legs to one side and set her feet down, in the slippers thoughtfully set at the side of the bed, he sprang to his feet, and supported her as she rose, a guiding hand beneath her elbow.

‘It’s OK, I’m not going to keel over, John.’ She smiled at him, feeling strong again, buoyed up by the sensation of being looked after so lovingly.

‘Shall I get some food organised? More toast?’ he enquired, as she stood at the door, looking back at him. She’d never seen a gorgeous, macho stud of a man look so much like a fussing mother hen. It made her want to giggle, but also get better as soon as humanly possible, so she could draw forth again the other side of him, the dominant, exciting lover.

‘Bath first … then I’ll decide if I’m hungry.’ John the mother hen was lovely, but against all the odds, Lizzie suddenly felt vaguely horny.

Must be some wacky ‘preserving the species’ reaction to feeling better again. How weird.

A little while later, settled in the huge, sunken tub, she
called out to him. The water was heavenly, and even though she’d washed already, the offer of having her back scrubbed by her lover was just too tempting.

‘I’m mostly clean,’ she told him when he appeared, ‘but there’re just some bits of my back I can’t reach.’

‘I thought there might be.’ He settled gracefully beside the tub, and she passed him the washcloth. Dipping it into the water, he began to move it in slow circles over her naked back.

The odd little surge of desire had sunk to a low flame now, just a pilot light. The beautiful sense of intimacy between them was too lovely to disrupt with fires of passion, joyous as those were. Companionship, his light touch, and his close presence were just the final dose of sweet medicine that she needed.

And there was always the possibility that any form of crazy, rampant shagging might deplete her hard-won energy levels.

‘I bet this wasn’t what you had in mind when you decided you wanted to lure me to your lair, was it?’ she asked, flexing her back and enjoying the gentle massage. ‘You were expecting a kinky sex kitten mistress and you got a fluey, germy, smelly gargoyle who you had to get the doctor for.’

‘Maybe I have a thing for gargoyles?’ He grinned at her, with that beautiful, playful superstar twinkle of a smile that had hooked her, instantaneously, that first night in the Lawns Bar at the Waverley.

‘You’re a very peculiar man, Mr Smith.’

His sudden, gusty sigh surprised her. ‘Yes, certainly that … but I’m not exactly an easy one either, am I?’

A little chill overcame her, and she shivered. As if he
were monitoring her every breath, her every movement, or symptom, John let the washcloth slide into the bath, and laid his bare hand on to her back.

‘Are you cold, sweetheart? Are you OK? Not feeling dizzy again?’

She wasn’t. She was convinced she was virtually well now, almost back to herself. But there were shadows from the past that had to be dealt with, and she sensed that was what John felt too. They would have covered that ground by now, and perhaps been in an entirely new place, if she hadn’t been taken ill. They’d certainly have brought Clara out of hiding.

‘No. I’m good, John. I feel almost back to normal now.’ She paused. ‘I’m ready to deal with things, and I think we need to discuss some stuff, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said, one word a full answer. He reached for a bath sheet, and as she rose from the water, he swathed it around her.

‘Do you think I might have a moment or two to myself again, John?’ she said, shimmying against the thick, lush terrycloth. ‘Just five minutes or so and then I’ll be out again.’

‘Of course, love.’ His lips settled momentarily on the nape of her neck, then with a squeeze of her shoulders, he strode to the door. Only to pause, turn and give her a look.

‘Yes, OK, if I feel weird again, I’ll shout for you.’

‘Good girl,’ he replied, then slid from the room.

When she returned to the bedroom, he was sitting on the padded seat at the further, larger window, looking out over the park. It was dark now, but the moon rode high, and John’s face was pure drama where its light shone upon him. Turning to her, he rose, but when she walked forward to join him there, he sat down again.

‘Better?’ He reached for her hand and held it, rubbing
his other hand up and down the sleeve of her thick velour bathrobe.

‘Very much. Barely any gargoyle characteristics left now.’

‘You look beautiful. You always look beautiful. When I look at you, I never can quite work out what I’ve done to deserve you.’

And me, you.

She didn’t say it. She just smiled. His sweet compliment didn’t seem like an avoiding tactic; it just felt as if he really meant it.

‘So …’ she said.

‘Yes … so,’ he answered, his hand tightening around hers. ‘What did Rose tell you? I suspect she revealed some things I told her she should never ever disclose to anybody.’ His expression was rueful, and it made him look so young, a little lost, but ageless.

‘She did. But don’t be cross with her. She was only trying to help.’ She put her own hand around his. He so often embraced her with that double-handed grip, and it felt right to return it to him. ‘I know you weren’t driving that night, and I know you went to prison for someone called Clara.’ He didn’t move, but she felt immediate tension in his fingers. ‘I guess she was a girlfriend? Someone who meant a lot to you?’

He nodded, his face hardening to a mask. Did he hate Clara now? Or hate himself for still caring for her? It could be either. Determined not to cringe from the worst possibilities, Lizzie pressed on: