Sara Wood-Expectant Mistress original Read online

  ‘Jack the Ripper, I think.' Trish flashed him a wry grin.

  ‘Or Casanova.'

  ‘Formidable lady. I think she’d challenge stampeding elephants if you were threatened.’

  Trish beamed. ‘I’d do the same for her. She’s a darling. I love her very much. She can be a bit wacky at times——’

  ‘I know!’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘No, I mean as in crazy!’ She was laughing with him, thinking how like old times this was. ‘Sometimes she forgets things—like eating. Sometimes she’s as sharp as a knife. You never can tell. It makes each day chancy—but exciting? Agitated by the warmth of his eyes, she checked her watch. ‘That’s odd! Lucy should be here by now.’

  ‘She’s not coming,’ he announced casually. Trish’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your grandmother waylaid her as I was leaving.’

  And wider. ‘What for?’

  ‘Company,’ he said glibly. ‘Oh. And your grandmother's staying overnight with a friend. Why does Lucy need you?’

  Trish felt totally disorientated. Gran was behaving in a most peculiar fashion. Lucy, too. And Adam... Why was he looking at her in that serious, affectionate way? Was her hair decorated with blobs of Stilton? Somehow she dragged her mind back to his question. But she couldn’t take her eyes from the satin skin stretched over his collar—bone and the heavy pulse in the vulnerable little hollow at the base of his throat.

  ‘Lucy,’ she said with the slow, deliberate air of an alcoholic trying to pretend she was sober, ‘is another person I have to warn you about.'

  ‘Sounds like a story coming up. Life here,’ he murmured, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking devastatingly nonchalant and at ease, ‘is absolutely fascinating. Tell me about the gorgeous Lucy’s particular peculiarities.'

  Absorbed in the movement of his mouth, she was unaware that her lashes had fluttered and her huge eyes had become deep, sapphire pools of longing. Adam drew in a huge breath, lifting his torso so that it was taut and gleaming in the late evening sun.

  ‘She. . .’ Trish tried again, struck by the irony of her confused speech. ‘She stutters.'

  The smile was wiped from his face and a bleakness replaced it. Several seconds elapsed before he seemed capable of speaking himself, and by then his expression had become shuttered. Trish watched him very closely, knowing that something in his past was hurting him, and wishing she could talk to him about it.

  ‘That’s why she said nothing! I wondered... Poor girl,’

  he said at last. He hesitated, on the brink of telling her something, then said, ‘l know what that’s like. It’s hell. People treat you like an idiot.' He met her look of surprise with his steady gaze, his expression still unreadable. ‘I’m a recovering stammerer.' he said in a low tone.

  ‘You!’ Trish cried in amazement.

  ‘Me.’

  And suddenly she realised she knew nothing about him—and wanted to hear it all: his childhood, this teenage years, where he went to school, how he got his first job... But all that was Louise’s prerogative, she told herself. Intimate little chats over the computer keyboards during a coffee break. In bed. After sex. She began to scrape the new potatoes as if she had no further interest in him.

  ‘I’d never have guessed in a million years,' she said, annoyed that she sounded as if she were making cocktailparty chatter: bright, cheerful, her voice pitched somewhere near the ceiling.

  ‘I control it by breathing,' he offered after a moment.

  ‘It’s a method that works with some people, but not every one. You want to know more?’

  Yes. Everything, she thought passionately. Especially why someone as confident and assured as Adam had ever suffered from a speech impediment. But she’d betray herself—especially the fact that she could feel his pain.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied, hoping she sounded vaguely bored. ‘I’d like Lucy to try this breathing technique, though.'

  ‘I’d be delighted to teach her—·’ he began earnestly.

  ‘No!’ cried Trish, anxious to protect the shy young girl.

  ‘She’d never let you! She’s terribly self—conscious. Don’t upset her—’

  ‘Whatever you say!’ He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I wouldn’t hurt her for the world.’

  ‘You won’t draw attention to it if she tries to speak, will you?’ she asked, worrying that he’d make Lucy worse.

  ‘Please! I know what it’s like better than most. I’m not entirely insensitive, Trish.'

  The gentle rebuke made her feel ashamed of her lack of trust. ‘Sorry! Forgive me, Adam! I’m so used to protecting her from people. I know you’ve got a kind heart.'

  There was an imperceptible twist to his mouth. ‘Not as generous as yours. You’re one of life’s carers. You employ Lucy, even when you don’t need her...’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Wouldn’t anyone'?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Most people act for their own selfish reasons.’

  ‘Not here, they don’t. We look after each other. Lucy needs a boost to her self-confidence. She needs to meet people. I’m teaching her how to cook. I want her to go on the same course I did,’ she said fervently, trying to avoid Adam’s sultry, brooding gaze. ‘She’ll have a sense of purpose then, a feeling of achievement. Why don’t you put your shirt on?’ she finished irritably. Having Adam around was bad enough, but a half-nude Adam was testing her to the limit!

  ‘Not much point. I’ll go and have a shower in a moment,’

  he answered with a lazy smile.

  ‘Stay there much longer and I’ll give you a job.' she threatened.

  ‘Fine by me. I don’t know anything about cooking, though.’ He eyed the potatoes as though they were hand grenades.

  ‘Time you learnt,’ she muttered grimly. ‘There are things every husband-to—be should know.’

  Though for the life of her she couldn’t picture Adam and Louise doing domestic chores together. They’d have servants, of course. What was the fun in that?

  Adam, however, had apparently been galvanised by the thought of learning a spouse’s job. He’d moved to her side in a flash, washed his hands, and was now nudging her hip with his.

  ‘Move over!’ he complained cheerfully, eager to begin his husbandly chores.

  Trish felt like sulking at his enthusiasm. Here she was, side by side with the most hunky guy in the Northem Hemisphere, and she was teaching him the art of being a New Man-—someone else’s! Scraping potatoes, of all things! Just her luck. Other women would have chosen something glamorous or sexy, like ‘Wining and Dining’, or

  ‘Bedside Approaches’, she thought crossly, handing him a knife. But, no, she had to be up to her armpits in peelings over a kitchen sink!

  She sucked in a huge breath of resignation. Adam’s whole body tensed as he began to attack the potato in his hand, Seeing there’d be nothing left unless she intervened, she put her hand quickly over his.

  His eyes flashed dangerously in response and Trish drew her hand away, quickly, too shocked by the instantly sexual images which had come into her head to wonder why. She and Adam. Naked, exploring each other inch by inch. The curve of his neat buttocks, the thrust of his powerful thighs...

  ‘Yes?’ he enquired in an undertone, jerking her out of her paralysis.

  Yes, please. She needed him. Her whole body was aching, tuned into every move he made, preoccupied with satisfying her insatiable lust. Horrified by the baseness of her instincts, she stared at the scraps of peel, trying to remember what she’d been doing.

  ‘I forget". No! I remember? she cried in relief. ‘Leave some of the white stuff,' she said, forcing an exasperated tone and pointing to the sad remnant of potato in his hand.

  ‘That’s the part we’re going to eat, idiot!’

  ‘Right. I lost concentration,' he admitted, with a slow, heart—warming smile.

  Trish put on a schoolmarm frown. She wasn’t having h
im dreaming of Louise while she was around! ‘Well, don’t,’ she said sharply. ‘Watch more closely.'

  He did, taking her instruction literally. Welded to her side, he bent his head to hers; she was tensely aware of his lashes brushing his cheeks and the solemn set of his mouth. She was conscious, too, of the warm, male smell of him, the terrible proximity of his naked chest and the fact that his bare arms were brushing hers. Beautiful arms. Shapely, with a light covering of fine, dark hairs whose silkiness was sending shivers of eroticism up and down her spine.

  ‘You’re an extraordinary person, Trish,’ he said, so softly that she found herself straining towards him to make out his muttered comment.

  'I know.’ Her mouth settled into an uncharacteristic pout. Stupid enough, unfair enough, to want someone else’s man. Disconsolately she scraped away. ‘Gran says I'm peculiar too.’

  ‘I said extra ordinary.'

  The words vibrated with a strange richness. Perhaps because they had been pitched lower than usual, they sounded unusually heartfelt. Trish was just telling herself that she’d obviously started fantasising and was well on her way to fairyland when he reached across her to drop his finished potato into the saucepan on the draining-board. He took an unbearably long time about it—so long that it seemed he was issuing an open invitation.

  More than willing to accept, she almost leaned forward and kissed the infinitely desirable line of his jaw. Before she did, he had straightened, dropped the knife, fished it out of the bowl of water and dropped it again. He looked at it with helpless exasperation, then grasped it decisively. Trish struggled to keep the atmosphere friendly and to make amends for the way she’d misinterpreted his body language.

  ‘Why do you say that about me?’ she asked curiously. He was having some diffrculty co-ordinating his movements. ‘What?’

  She grinned. The ultra—efficient Adam was well out of his element! ‘Me. Not ordinary.'

  ‘Because you take on responsibilities that others would shirk. You can’t have been very old when you looked after your mother. Didn’t you say once that she’d died when you were fifteen? How did you manage with schoolwork?'

  ‘Fairly well.’ She grimaced. ‘I suppose I failed more exams than I might have done. Gran was more active then——the arthritis hadn’t got to her,’ Trish explained, glad they were talking about normal things. ‘She ran the guesthouse business and looked after Mum during the week. I went to the secondary school on St Mary’s, you see.’

  ‘A long way to travel every day.'

  He was listening very intently, as if he was interested in the small details of her life. Flattered, she felt encouraged to tell him more.

  ‘But I didn’t. That would be a nightmare! Especially in the winter gales! Bryher children go to Tresco school from the age of five to eleven. Then, like all children from the out islands, they stay on St Mary’s from Monday to Friday. For the year she was ill, I looked after Mum on the weekends and holidays, did the week’s shopping, cooked great batches of stuff for the week ahead—pies, stews, puddings and so on. I cleaned the cottage and did the washing and ironing, so that Gran wouldn’t have too much to do.’

  ‘I had no idea. You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Christine took all our spare time, didn’t she?’ Trish reminded him. ‘We were too busy to delve into the whole of my past. And nursing my mother who was dying of cancer wasn’t the kind of thing I could chat about to Christine.'

  ‘We asked a lot of you. And you gave it,’ he commented thoughtfully. ‘You helped to care for your mother, then my wife, and now your grandmother. Don’t you ever want time to yourself? To be free?’

  Trish laughed. ‘I am free! I’m doing what I love!’ A gentle smile spread over her face, lighting her eyes with warmth and affection. ‘If people you care for are in need, you give of yourself without feeling any sense of hardship.’

  He seemed to be struggling to understand that. ‘You must have grown up rather faster than most,’ he observed.

  ‘I suppose so. We’re all used to turning our hands to anything and everything that needs doing. We pull together. We’re a real old—fashioned community. It’s hard work but lots. of fun. The cottage was always full of laughter when Mum was there,’ she recalled fondly. ‘Bryher people used to pop in and tell her what they’d been doing and sometimes she’d be surrounded by a dozen people, telling tall and utterly improbable tales!’

  ‘Now I understand why you were so skilled at handling the people in the hospice,’ said Adam, his mouth soft with smiles as she recounted the happy memories. ‘You don’t see imminent death as a reason to tiptoe around and look glum.’

  ‘It depends. You don’t want someone being bright and breezy if you feel dire,’ she said quietly, throwing a handful of mint leaves into the saucepan. Both she and Adam leaned forward to sniff the aroma and bumped into one another in the process. ‘Sorry!’ she mumbled, her eyes huge with alarm.

  ‘I’m not!’

  His hand caught her chin and turned her face to his, cradling it with a firm intent that weakened her legs instantly. Her huge eyes searched his in wonder.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she gasped in panic.

  ‘What I was going to do before your grandmother appeared. Relax,' he soothed. ‘It had to be.’

  She couldn’t speak. Desire drugged his eyes: desire for her. Bewildered, she let her lashes flutter down, her gaze fixed on the wickedly carnal lines of his mouth. She felt overwhehned by his sex appeal. Deliciously defenceless.

  ‘No!’ she whispered, denying herself. And then, knowing how close she was to capitulating, she cried more vehemently, a note of desperation in her voice, ‘ No! Leave me alone, Adam!’

  Instantly he moved back, apparently not at all put out that she had rejected his pass. She had the distinct impression that his intention had been postponed, not abandoned. Nervously, she picked up a bowl of herbs and then put it down again because her hands were shaking so much. This was awful. They were both acting badly...

  He knew she wanted him. She was obviously sending out signals to him and that was why he’d tried to kiss her, believing she was encouraging him. He was a man, after all, and weren’t men by their very nature easily aroused?

  She’d stalled him for now. But he had only to exert a little more pressure on her and she’d find him impossible to resist. He’s engaged, she told herself tersely. Off limits.

  ‘I think I’ll unpack, shower and make a few calls before dinner,' he announced calmly. A small, wry smile lifted the comers of his mouth. ‘I suppose we don’t need the barricade now, do we?’

  Confused and shamed by the implication that she’d connived in his plan to steal forbidden kisses, she made no reply. Lowering her head, she mechanically arranged the chops on the grill pan. In a moment or two he had grown bored with her silence and had replaced the chair, picked up his shirt and left the room.

  She cooked the meal. Ignored him when he came downat seven-fifteen for a drink. Served the first course, then the second, and all the while they remained tense and silent. The sexual tension in the room was unbearable. It was like walking into an electric storm.

  ‘You...didn’t like this?’ she asked anxiously, seeing his soup was barely touched.

  ‘What? Sorry, Trish. I was miles away. No, it was excellent. I’m a bit preoccupied. Problems at work.’ He fiddled with the stem of his wineglass. ‘I have to return to London tomorrow.’

  A silence fell. She stared at him, dismayed by the strength of her disappointment. ‘Permanently?’ she asked uuhappily.

  His lashes flicked up as if to check her expression. She drew in a sharp breath, knowing well what his eyes were telling her. This could be the only chance we have of being together. Take it or leave it.

  ‘Difficult to say.’

  Feeling like bursting into tears, she carried the plates out and absently slid them into the sink. He was leaving—

  maybe never to return. Her reaction appalled her. She wanted him. Desired him so much that she didn
’t know what to do with herself, other than to hide her feelings as much as possible. Carefully, she placed the dishes for the main course on a tray, took a deep breath and carried everything in. Adam was thoughtfully sipping wine, his expression taut with concentration. When he looked up at her, it was as if his dark eyes were intent on seeing right into her head.

  Without speaking, she slid the plate in front of him, painfully conscious of how close she was to him. He was clearly hot and had taken off his sage linen jacket to reveal an expensive cream shirt which matched exactly his cream chinos. Unable to avoid thinking of his body beneath, she gave a little shudder as goose—pimples crawled up her spine. Hurriedly, she left the room.

  After a decent interval and three furtive glasses of fortifying wine, she returned with the strawberries.

  ‘Trish... My apologies. I couldn’t do justice to your cooking, delicious though it was.' He paused, his long, slim lingers following the curves of a serving spoon.

  ‘Work,’ she supposed, swallowing nervously.

  ‘No.’

  He wasn’t looking at her but she knew he was as wound up as she was. Her breathing became shallow when she began to collect the dishes. Something was drawing her to him and she stood far too close for one brief, unwise second. It was long enough. In that time, Adam’s eyes had locked with hers, one hand had caught her outstretched arm and the other had splayed on the small of her back, pulling her against his thigh.

  ‘You. You’ve ruined. ..one appetite of mine,’ he said in soft reproach.

  'I’m...sorry!’ she answered stupidly, her throat dry from the implication.

  Visibly simmering with a frightening, pent-up sexual energy, he swung around in his chair, his legs trapping hers. The pressure of his fingers pressing on her firm rear jerked her forwards till she could feel the heat between his thighs.

  ‘We have to settle this, Trish!’

  She stared down at him, completely transfixed by his compelling eyes. ‘Settle. . .what?’ she asked warily, but gulped, knowing what he meant. She had to stop luring him with unguarded, longing glances. Maybe she couldn’t help herself, but it wasn’t fair Adam rose in a sudden movement which knocked over the chair. Both of them ignored it and Trish felt her heart stop, then pound heavily at the determination in his expression. Dismayed, she could only gaze hungrily at him, unable to conceal how badly she wanted to be kissed.