Mistress Material
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Sharon Kendrick
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Chapter 1
IT COULDN’T be! Suki thought frantically. Not him! Anyone but him! And yet who else could it be? For who on earth could be mistaken for Pasquale Caliandro—the most diabolical man it had ever been her misfortune to meet?
Dear God, please no, she prayed silently, but she could do absolutely nothing to stop the slow pull of desire unfurling in the pit of her stomach as her traitorous eyes feasted themselves on the most delectable example of the male species she had ever seen in twenty-four years.
And she had seen the lot.
In the course of her career she had worked with male models, actors and rock stars—whose seductive faces and sexy bodies graced the bedroom walls of millions of women all over the world. But not one, not a single one, had come even close to the kind of impact that this man had on her. And not just her, either, she observed caustically, since every other woman present seemed hypnotised by that spectacular, long-legged frame.
Suki’s heart was thumping erratically. What the hell was he doing here, in the South of France? And what on earth should she do? She wondered if he’d seen her—but even if he had, would he remember the brazen young girl who had offered her body so eagerly to him when she was barely seventeen?
Completely forgetting that she’d loosened the thin gold straps of her bikini, Suki struggled to sit up, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and then she saw that he was moving. He was walking.
Towards her!
She gave a helpless little whimper as her eyes were drawn to the powerful thrust of his thighs. Then upwards. Dear Lord! This man didn’t need to flaunt himself in tight jeans—indeed, she suspected that if he ventured outside in anything other than the cool, pale, beautifully cut linen trousers he wore he would be arrested immediately for indecent exposure.
Up still further her eyes roamed. Oh, what a chest! Abroad, powerful sweep of hair-darkened muscle beneath the cream silk of his shirt.
Her mouth dried as her eyes finally reached his face, lingering all too briefly on the beautifully shaped lips which somehow managed to be both sensual and cruel. And that nose—with its proud, aristocratic Roman curve. Who would have guessed that a nose could be such a turnon? she thought, unable to stop herself from ogling it, like an art-lover confronted with a masterpiece for the first time ever. Reluctantly, her gaze drifted upwards to meet his eyes, and her heart stilled as she acknowledged the cold fire and the contempt which sparked from the dark depths and which he made no effort whatsoever to hide.
His mouth was nothing more than a derisory slash as he reached her lounger and towered over her. ‘So,’ he drawled contemptuously, ‘I see that the years have done little to temper your appetites, cara.’
Her precariously thin veneer of sophistication was vanquished in a moment by the wounding words, delivered in the deepest, sexiest voice she had ever heard, an intriguing mixture of transatlantic with a seductive European undertone.
Logical thought was impossible, and she was instantly on the defensive. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded furiously.
‘Oh, come on...’ The mouth twisted with devilish scorn. ‘I refer to your leisurely scrutiny of my body, Suzanna.’
‘Suki,’ she corrected immediately.
Dark eyebrows were raised in a silent and aloof query. ‘Ah! Of course—Suki.’ He emphasised the word so that it sounded like some sultry profanity. ‘The name you acquired along with your glittering fame as a model, and your many lovers...’
Her mouth fell open and she made a little murmur of protest at such a patent untruth, but he carried on regardless. ‘But no matter,’ he said softly as he surveyed her from slitted, dangerous eyes, ‘what you call yourself. Your basic gutter instincts remain the same, do they not? You looked as if you would like to eat me up. Every inch of me,’ he emphasised hatefully.
Swine!
Colour rushed up to form two heated flares over her high cheekbones as she tossed the thick waves of her hair back over her slender shoulders. Head held high, she spoke from a throat which felt as if it had been lined with the roughest, coarsest sandpaper. ‘You flatter yourself, Pasquale!’ she shot back. ‘But then you always did!’
He gave a small smile then, allowed it to linger and play around his lips. ‘Do I—Suki?’ he returned silkily. ‘Flatter myself?’ And the sudden change in the timbre of his voice, the velvet caress as he spoke her name, sent her senses jangling. The flow of blood around her veins altered; became slow and heavy. She felt the pulse-points beating insistently at her temples, her wrists... and ... shamefully.. deep, deep within her groin as he stared down at her.
But more was to follow as his eyes roamed almost indifferently over her face, seemingly careless of her enormous eyes gazing helplessly at him or of her wide mouth throbbing in an unconsciously provocative moue.
The only flash of life and of interest came when his gaze came at last to alight on her breasts and then the indifference was replaced by a feral light and his eyes darkened as they took in the lush, creamy mounds. She felt them tingle, become heavy and swollen, the tips burning with tingling excitement. And as he gave a coldly triumphant smile she realised to her horror that the forgotten bikini-top had slipped right down, exposing most of her for his scathing delectation. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried, and clapped both palms protectively over her breasts.
He said something very softly in Italian as his eyes narrowed. ‘Please do not cover them, cara,’ he murmured, on a husky entreaty. ‘Such magnificent breasts. How I long to touch them. To take each tip into my mouth and to suckle each one until—’
Suki grabbed a towel and threw it over herself, squirming with embarrassment and an excitement which was painfully acute as she struggled to haul the flimsy gold material back into place, but faced with that look of hunger in those dark, magnificent eyes she was all fingers and thumbs.
She hadn’t seen him for seven years, and yet two minutes in his company was enough to plunge her into dark and erotic waters which were threatening to completely submerge her. It was a nightmare. ‘Get—away from me,’ she managed, on a croak. ‘Now!’
He didn’t move; he didn’t need to—because he was actually standing beside her, not touching her at all, but at her words he seemed to pull himself together, because the raw heat of need was wiped from his face leaving nothing but a coldly contemptuous mask. ‘Certainly,’ he concurred, in a voice which was strangely harsh and a touch unsteady. ‘There is little pleasure to be gained from a woman who offers herself so freely.’
Stung, Suki glared up at him from narrow amber eyes which threatened to glimmer with tears of self-disgust. But she kept them at bay.
Just.
‘I wouldn’t offer myself to you if you were the last man in the universe!’
‘No? You have undergone a radical change of personality, then?’ he mocked.
What could she say? She wasn’t hypocritical enough to deny just how dreadfully she had once behaved with Pasquale Caliandro.
Still clutching the towel to her, she sat up, and the glint in his eye was unmistakable. Curiosity warred with common sense; and curiosity won hands down. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, her heart beginning to race erratically as a schoolgirlish hope she’d thought long dead re-emerged with startling strength. ‘You haven’t—followed me here?’
To her fury, he actually threw his dark head back and laughed aloud, a glorious, mellifluous sound which made several people turn round to look at them. But when he’d stopped laughing the face which regarded her was cold and unsmiling. ‘Followed you?’ he queried, and the trace of sardonic incredulity made her blood boil. ‘Now why on earth should I want to do that?’
Suki shrugged, a desire for revenge chipping away at her insistently. ‘Your reputation with women is legendary,’ she said coolly.
‘Is it, now?’ he queried softly. ‘I wasn’t aware that you had such intimate knowledge of my behaviour.’
She sought to disillusion him of the idea that she somehow spent all her spare time finding out about him and his fabled exploits with the fairer sex. ‘I read the gossip columns like everyone else,’ she said.
‘Ah!’ He nodded. ‘So you do. But at least, cara, I do not have the reputation of breaking up other people’s relationships. Unlike you,’ he accused, and he nodded again when he saw her colour heighten. ‘Yes,’ he affirmed. ‘You see, I too read the gossip columns.’
Oh, those wretched tabloids! According to them, she’d had more lovers than Mata Hari! ‘If you’re referring to that ridiculous scandal in New York—that was a pack of lies!’ Suki defended hotly.
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Oh, really? So the photographer’s girlfriend made the whole thing up, did she? You weren’t sleeping with her boyfriend?’
‘No, I wasn’t!’
His mouth curved contemptuously. ‘And the newly married Arabian prince who courted you so assiduously in front of his young bride last year... Tell me, was that also a pack of lies?’
Suki sighed as she remembered that sorry little affair. She’d met Prince Abdul at a cocktail party thrown by the Foreign Office in Paris. He had been ridiculously infatuated—mostly, Suki suspected, because she hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in him. He had always had everything he’d always wanted, and he had wanted her!
He had actually asked her to be his second bride—but without even bothering to divorce the first one! She had intended telling Prince Abdul exactly what she thought of him, but one of the diplomats at the Foreign Office had sought her out for a quiet word. There was a big oil deal going through between Prince Abdul’s country and Britain. Best not to actually turn him down outright, but to let him down gently...
In fact, afterwards the diplomat had told her that she had been a great help to her country—maybe Pasquale should hear about that! She held her head up proudly and looked him straight in the eye. ‘There happens to be a perfectly simple explanation for that,’ she said reasonably.
But it seemed that he wasn’t interested in reason, or an explanation, because his dark eyes were boring into hers, an expression of scorn lifting the corner of his exquisite mouth. ‘And even given my supposed reputation,’ he gritted, ‘do you somehow imagine that I am so desperate as to follow and to find you? You who are everything that I most despise in a woman?’
Stung by the biting criticism, Suki was momentarily lost for words, her cheeks flaring at the denigrating accusation he’d thrown at her. Yes, OK, she hadn’t behaved too well, but surely her foolish youthful behaviour with him didn’t warrant that kind of censure? ‘I really don’t think that’s fair...’ she faltered.
But he had crouched down so that their eyes were on a level, and she could almost see the hostility emanating from him in pure waves towards her. ‘When I go searching for a woman,’ he said deliberately, ‘it will be for someone as unlike you as possible. Though I’m not sure that she exists—because I’ve certainly never come across her.
‘You see, Suki, I’m waiting for the woman who doesn’t give me the green light the instant that I meet her. Most men-and certainly this man—are turned on by the thrill of the chase before the capture. Something which is gained so easily has little intrinsic value, I believe.’
Suki was shaken to the core by the depth of his dislike, but she was damned sure she wouldn’t show it. Her amber eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I don’t have to lie here and listen to this—’
‘No, indeed,’ he agreed, in his deep drawl, his eyes hot and hungry with sexual mischief. ‘I have a much better idea. Why don’t we move away? You could lie down somewhere else. With me...’
Somehow he managed to imbue the suggestion with so much sensual promise that it took Suki every last ounce of pride she possessed to answer him back. ‘Spare me your cheap innuendo!’ she said, her eyes sparking amber fire. ‘And make your mind up! Either you despise me so much that my very presence contaminates you or you’re extending an extremely unsubtle invitation to get me into bed with you—you can’t do both, Pasquale.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Dear, dear—a supposedly intelligent man like you really ought to be able to see such gaping holes in your logic.’
She saw the warning light of battle in his eyes, but when he spoke his voice was very soft. ‘A man does not always think with his head,’ he said insultingly.
That did it! ‘Get out of my way,’ she said from between gritted teeth, and she swung her long, faintly tanned legs over the side of the lounger. First glancing down to check that she was halfway decent, she dropped the towel onto the lounger, then got to her feet, looking around in vain for Salvatore, the photographer who had brought her to this house-party outside Cannes.
It was supposed to have been the relaxing finale to two days of solid shooting for a book of photographs Salvatore was producing. Relaxing—huh! About as relaxing as being on the front line of a war-zone, with the arrival of Pasquale Caliandro. Suki began to move away.
‘Oh, no. Not so fast.’ In a single, snake-like movement Pasquale had captured her tiny wrist in the strong grasp of his hand and Suki was horrified how her body thrilled to that first contact of flesh on flesh. And why did he have to be so tall? So powerful? So gorgeous? Her throat constricted.
‘Let me go—’
He shook his head with implacable confidence. ‘No. You and I need to talk.’
‘I have nothing to say to you—’
‘But I,’ he said, and his voice was husky with intent, ‘have plenty to say to you.’
‘I’m not interested.’ But oh, what a lie, for despite her instinctive and purely protective need to put as much distance between them as possible she was bursting to know what he wanted—and she was certain that he’d guessed as much.
He gave a small, humourless smile. ‘On the contrary—I think you might be.’
He still held her wrist and she was powerless to move, and Suki realised that to an outsider it would appear that he was holding her lightly, almost affectionately—the steely determination of his grip would not be apparent to anyone else.
She tried a different approach. After all, she’d had to fend men off before. She tipped her head to one side, so that the long curls—the colour of golden syrup glinting in the sunshine, or so she’d been told—fell over her bosom. ‘If you carry on like that, Pasquale,’ she said reasonably, ‘then you’ll really leave me no choice other than to scream, and I’m sure that would do your reputation no good whatsoever.’
‘My reputation is of no concern to me,’ he drawled with dismissive arrogance. ‘But if that is what you intend to do, then I must give you fair warning that you will really leave me no choice other than to silence you most satisfactorily.’
Her confusion must have shown in her eyes. ‘By kissing you, of course,’ he elaborated silkily. ‘And as I recall you liked me kissing you, didn’t you, Suki? You liked it ve-ry much.’
Oh! That occasional lilt to his voice was so devilishly attractive! Suki took a deep breath and met his gaze full-on. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘For now.’ The words sounded ominous.
She’d been little more than a child when she’d known him before, and then she had been so enraptured by his physical magnetism that she had seen little beyond his tantalising exterior. Now, as an adult, she recognised the quiet determination about the man which he wore like a mantle. If Pasquale wanted to talk to her, she realised, then attempting to avoid him might prove to be more trouble than it was worth.
‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Talk to me. I’m listening. But I’m giving you five minutes to say whatever it is you want to say—and then I’m out of here!’
‘Out—of—here,’ he repeated slowly, in a voice of fascinated horror. He made a little clicking sound of disapproval. ‘Such an expensive Swiss education,’ he mused. ‘Wasted. That all those years of tuition should culminate in such bald, inelegant little statements...’
His elegant censure hit a raw nerve as something inside her snapped. The realisation that he was playing with her, teasing her, as an angler would a fish, made Suki realise that she was putting herself into an unnecessarily weak position. She didn’t have to stay and talk to him. She didn’t have to do anything. She was no longer a naive and gullible schoolgirl—she was an independent career-woman in her own right, for heaven’s sake!
Without another word, she stalked off towards the house, pushing her way through the milling throng, but she knew from the buzz which accompanied her movements that Pasquale was following her.
Let him follow her! she thought with a stubborn resurgence of resolve. She would slam the wretched door in his face and then lock it! That would call his bluff. He had arrogantly stated that his reputation was of no concern to him, but she doubted whether he would want this select and privileged bunch of guests witnessing him beating her door down!
She was aware of people watching them, of the women staring at Pasquale, their eyes full of ill-concealed lust. She had been like that once. She shuddered in disgust as she glanced over her shoulder to see that he had paused to speak to one of the waitresses. Vaguely, Suki wondered where Salvatore was, but he was nowhere to be seen. But then perhaps it was better that he wasn’t around. He would want to know who Pasquale was—and how could she tell him? How could she say, He’s the brother of the girl who was my best friend—the man I once begged to make love to me?
And he hadn’t.
That was the most galling thing.
He hadn’t.
It was a story she was not proud of and to this day it had the power to make her flinch when she remembered exactly how she had behaved. Over the years she had deliberately pushed the memory to the recesses of her mind and seeing him today had brought it all flooding back with painful clarity.
She slipped through the house, her bare feet moving over the cold marble floors, her tall, dark, silent pursuer making her heart thunder with dread and excitement.
Her room was on the first floor, at the opposite end of the corridor to Salvatore’s, and she hurriedly pushed the door open, aware of Pasquale’s footsteps, of the soft sound of his breath, of that strange, elusive masculine scent, still so startlingly familiar, even after seven years.
She turned to face him, her chest heaving, her almond-shaped amber eyes narrowed like a lioness’s. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said.
His face was infuriatingly enigmatic. ‘I agree,’ he returned. ‘You are injecting an element of farce into my simple request that we talk.’
She thought of the intimacy of the room just behind them. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But not here.’
He smiled, but the smile did not reach his cold, glittering eyes. ‘Oh? And why not—or can I guess? The presence of a bed bothers you, does it, Suki? Are you afraid of what might happen if you’re alone in a bedroom with me?’
She swallowed. All those nights she’d spent imagining how she’d behave if she ever had the misfortune to see him again. She had planned to ignore him, look down her nose at him. In her wilder fantasies she had even been prepared to pretend not to recognise him at all, planning to stare at that dark, handsome face with bemused bewilderment, although looking at him now she knew that that would have been asking a little too much of her general acting ability.
It had certainly not been her intention to let him know that his presence still had the power to disturb her. Profoundly. And wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now?
Taking a deep breath, she switched into superficial hostess mode. Giving him the bright smile she normally reserved for the lens of a camera, she waved her hand invitingly.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, sounding deliberately insincere, and saw from the cold twist of his mouth that her insincerity had been noted. ‘I’ve been under a lot of strain recently—working too hard—you know how it is.’ She glanced down at the waterproof watch on her wrist and gave him a cool, self-possessed smile. ‘I can give you—ten minutes. Is that time enough?’
‘Plenty,’ he said abrasively, and followed her into the room.
He walked over to the window, where the balcony overlooked the poolside, and there was silence for a moment as he stared down at people tearing apart the glistening red lobsters which the waiters had now produced, at women delicately devouring the sweet pink flesh as they tried not to smear their lipstick. Suki felt a shiver of unknown origin tingle its way up her spine.
‘How’s Francesca?’ she asked suddenly.
He tensed immediately and his face was like granite when he turned around to capture her in a cold, dark stare.
‘Do you care?’
‘Of course I care! She was my best friend—before you pulled her out of school and forbade me ever to see her again!’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘That was a decision I have never regretted. I did not approve of the company she was keeping.’
Suki lifted her chin. ‘By that I suppose you mean me?’
He gave her a steady look. ‘Yes, Suki—I mean you.’
‘The bad influence,’ she observed acidly.
He gave a low laugh. ‘Precisely. I had no intention of letting my sister start copying the kind of behaviour you were indulging in. Young girls are notoriously affected by what their peers do. And whilst you might have considered it perfectly normal to sleep around I had no intention of letting Francesca do the same.’
Sick at heart, Suki turned away from those dark, intent, judgemental eyes. He still thought of her as nothing more than a tramp—so why bother defending herself? Indeed, how could she possibly defend herself when he spoke nothing more than the truth?
‘Is that what you’ve come here for?’ she asked bitterly. ‘To go over the past? You’ve made it clear what you think of me—not that I care what you think any more—’
‘Did you ever?’ he interrupted softly. ‘Or was I just one more virile male for you to wrap those beautiful legs around?’
Suki hesitated painfully, the cruel censure behind his words making the erotic image they created disintegrate immediately. Her amber eyes glittered as she found herself speaking without bothering to analyse her words. ‘Of course I cared! You were the older brother of my dearest friend—I was a guest in your house, and you threw me out! Hustled me away like some criminal—flown away at high speed, my holiday cut short. Having to explain to my mother...’
A look almost of pain crossed his face. ‘What,’ he said, very softly, ‘did you tell your mother?’
Her eyes were amber ice. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she told him scornfully. ‘Your telephone call to her managed to allay any worries she might have had. I don’t know how you managed it, but you certainly sweet-talked her into thinking that everything was just fine and dandy. I certainly wasn’t going to enlighten her with the truth—that you kicked me out of your bed and out of your house within a few hours!’
‘Dio!’ he swore raggedly. ‘Must you put it quite so—crudely?’
‘I’m sorry if it’s crude,’ she said deliberately. ‘But it’s the truth. It’s horrible, it’s something I’d rather forget—and I will tell you for the last time that I’m simply not interested in rehashing the past—if that’s why you’ve come.’
He stared at her for a long moment of consideration before shaking his head. ‘That isn’t why I’ve come,’ he told her.
‘What, then?’ she asked him in bewilderment.
‘I’ve come to ask you to do something for me,’ he said simply, but as she was caught up in his direct stare the substance of his words drifted away like gossamer on a breeze because the soft, dark blaze of his eyes had the power to confuse her, to merge the years and send her mind racing back to a time almost eight years ago—the first time she had ever set eyes on Pasquale Caliandro...
