The Forbidden Mistress Read online

  ‘Because I’m not free,’ he said harshly, and Grace’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  ‘But, I thought you and Sophie—’

  ‘Not Sophie,’ he muttered grimly. ‘There’s—someone else. Someone I’ve been seeing for quite some time. I’m sorry.’

  Grace stared at him. ‘Then why did you—?’

  ‘I’ve told you why,’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘You make me crazy.’

  ‘And did I make you crazy the night you came to Tom’s house?’ Grace asked coldly.

  Oliver made a dismissive gesture. ‘I suppose you must have. I’m not proud of myself.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Grace choked, humiliation closing her throat. ‘Oh—go, will you? Just go. You make me sick.’

  ‘Grace—’

  ‘Get out of here,’ she commanded and, turning on her heel, she marched up the steps and into the house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I T WAS the following morning that Oliver’s mother mentioned that Grace was staying at her parents’ villa next door.

  ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you, Oliver?’ she asked, busying herself with the salad she was preparing for lunch. Thankfully, she wasn’t looking at him as she spoke and Oliver, who had just stopped in at the kitchen to ask where his father was, wished he hadn’t bothered.

  But his mother was expecting an answer, and despite his reluctance to discuss their neighbour, he had to admit that he had.

  ‘I was sure you must have done,’ Mrs Ferreira said happily, at least reassuring him that Grace had not discussed the previous morning’s events with her. ‘That was why I thought it would be a good idea to have her over for dinner. She’s joining us this evening. She’s on her own, you see. Her parents are still in England.’

  Yeah, right.

  Oliver expelled a heavy breath, wondering how the hell he could get out of this. After the way he’d behaved the day before, he was amazed that Grace had accepted his mother’s invitation. But then, like him, she would have had a difficult time thinking of an excuse.

  ‘She’s such a nice girl, you know?’ Mrs Ferreira continued, slicing an avocado into a bowl. ‘Your father and I have known the Lovells for a few years now. We used to wonder if she and Tom might hit it off. But then—’ Her face flushed as she realised what she was about to say, but, having committed herself, she had to go on. ‘He should never have got involved with Sophie. Stupid boy!’

  Oliver was relieved that his mother was so embarrassed over what she’d said that she didn’t notice his response. ‘There’s always hope,’ he said lightly, and then nodded towards the avocado. ‘That looks good. Can I have a taste?’

  Mrs Ferreira pretended to look disapproving, but she laid a slice of avocado on the end of her knife and offered it to him anyway. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Oliver?’ she asked as he put the moist fruit into his mouth. ‘My asking Grace to join us, I mean? As Miranda’s not here, I thought you might be glad of the company.’

  Oliver sighed. ‘I came here to see you two. No one else,’ he declared, wishing she’d asked him that before she’d made the arrangement. ‘But—no. I don’t mind.’ He managed a thin smile, and then asked offhandedly, ‘What did Grace say when you suggested it?’

  ‘Oh, well, she said she didn’t want to intrude, of course. But I explained that you wouldn’t think it was intruding. That you probably missed young female company anyway.’

  Oh, great!

  Somehow Oliver managed not to let his chagrin show and, after learning that his father was sitting on the patio, he left her making the salad dressing.

  But he didn’t immediately go outside. For some reason—a reason that wasn’t hard to fathom—he felt as if he needed a little time to himself before he spoke to anyone else. Going into his room, he flopped down on the bed. Then, resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands.

  God Almighty, he thought, what was he going to find to say to Grace? How on earth was he supposed to spend an evening in her company without betraying the effect she had on him? He could tell himself until he was blue in the face that she wasn’t worth all this soul-searching, that he could control whatever it was he felt for her, but it didn’t seem to work. However objectively he tried to look at it, when he was with her he thought with his sex, not his brain.

  Flinging himself backwards on the bed, he stared broodingly at the ceiling. For pity’s sake, he scowled savagely, what the hell was the matter with him? He wasn’t an animal, dammit. He didn’t waste time with women he didn’t respect, and he had no respect for Grace Lovell and the game she’d initiated, playing him and Tom off against one another.

  The trouble was, she looked so damn innocent, he acknowledged angrily. Until he’d seen her and Tom together, he would never have believed she was no better than his ex-wife.

  All the same, it hadn’t kept him away from her. He didn’t know what he’d intended the night he’d gone to Tom’s house and found her alone, but there was no doubt in his mind that it had included hot sex and cool sheets. He’d wanted her then and he’d wanted her yesterday morning, and if she hadn’t suggested an alternative venue he might well have been reckless enough to go all the way there and then.

  As it was, her words had awakened the cool voice of reason inside him, and somehow—not easily, he had to admit—he’d found the strength to get out of there. He wasn’t proud that he’d had to use Miranda as an excuse, and in all honesty she did deserve better, unlike someone else he could mention.

  His scowl deepened and he raked a frustrated hand through his damp hair. He’d had a shower earlier, and until his mother had exploded her bombshell, he’d been looking forward to spending the day trying to get a handle on his father’s financial situation. He’d come up with a solution that he hoped might serve the dual purpose of keeping the villa and rescuing the garden centre. It meant bailing Tom out as well, but anything was better than knowing the old man was having to sell this place and spend his winters in a soulless tower block.

  Now all he could think about was tonight and Grace’s visit. It didn’t help at all to know that she was probably dreading it just as much as he was. His mother’s well-meaning plans had put him in an impossible position, and if it wouldn’t have made him look like a complete coward he’d have feigned illness and cried off.

  By late afternoon, Oliver had managed to convince himself that he was exaggerating the situation. What could happen, after all? It was only dinner. His father and mother would do most of the talking, and surely he could maintain a polite façade for one evening? After all, until his libido had made such a God-awful fool of itself, he’d enjoyed talking to her. She was smart and intelligent, and she obviously liked and respected his parents. Go figure.

  His mother had told him that she’d asked Grace to arrive no later than seven-thirty, with dinner planned for eight o’clock, and by a quarter past the hour Oliver was pacing the patio, his second beer of the evening in his hand. Mrs Ferreira hadn’t hidden her disapproval when he’d returned to the fridge for the second bottle, but he’d merely arched an inquiring brow and she’d said nothing.

  Nevertheless, he knew she was worried about him, and he guessed she still suspected he harboured some feelings for his ex-wife and had come here to deal with them. If only. Oliver shook his head. Right now, Sophie and her problems were far away from his thoughts.

  He stared out into the velvet darkness, feeling the soft breeze like a gentle hand against his hot skin. There were lamps on tall stalks set around the patio, but much of the garden was in shadow, a hidden source of a dozen different perfumes. From inside the villa, the familiar fragrance of his mother’s tarragon sauce scented the air. She was preparing roast breasts of chicken, stuffed with a foie gras mousse, and his favourite pudding: a luscious custard dessert flavoured with caramel.

  He was taking a mouthful of beer when he became aware that he was no longer alone. He didn’t know how he knew it exactly. He’d heard nothing beyond the nightly droning of the insects. Yet he could feel ey
es upon him, her eyes, and he was hardly surprised when she moved into the light.

  What did surprise him was the way she looked. Until then, apart from the night gear she’d been wearing the day before, he’d never seen her in anything but trousers, and it was quite a shock to see her in a skirt. And what a skirt! It was a thin silk sheath in shades of bronze and black, which, despite the fact that it was slit from the hem almost to her waist, still managed to cling to every curve of hip and thigh. An amber-silk sequinned halter-top completed her outfit, exposing slim arms and wrists circled by at least half a dozen thin gold bangles. The creamy slopes of her breasts displayed a tantalising cleavage, touched here and there by the red-gold glory of her hair that was loose tonight about her shoulders. Huge gold hoops, to match the bangles, hung from her ears, playing hide-and-seek among the silken strands.

  But it was the supple skin of her midriff revealed as she moved that drew Oliver’s eyes. A ruby jewel nestled in her navel, undulating sensually as she walked.

  He’d been hot before, but now he felt a wave of raw lust dampen his skin. She was sex on legs, and he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t responded to her deliberate appeal.

  Feeling as if he could drink a dozen beers and still not assuage his sudden thirst, Oliver leaned back against the wall behind him and attempted a casual greeting. ‘Hi,’ he said, arms crossed over his midriff, the beer bottle still in his hand. ‘You look—’ Incredible? Gorgeous? Ravishing? ‘—different.’

  It was a lame excuse for a compliment and Grace’s glossy lips twisted in a mocking smile. ‘I’ve got my clothes on, you mean?’ she offered, glancing about her as if to ensure that they were alone. ‘I don’t imagine you like this situation any better than I do.’

  That was straight enough and Oliver restrained a wince. ‘That you’ve got your clothes on tonight?’ he responded, desperate to regain the advantage. He waited a beat. ‘I gather you haven’t forgiven me.’

  ‘Forgiven you?’ She halted a few feet from him, one finger toying with the gold hoop in her ear. ‘For what? Leading me on? Letting me think you were interested in me? Nearly seducing me in full view of the neighbours?’

  Oliver’s mouth compressed and he turned to set his beer bottle down on the wall beside him. ‘All of the above,’ he said ruefully, surrendering to the inevitable. ‘Like I said before, it shouldn’t have happened.’

  But who was he kidding? Not her, he guessed. He’d wanted it to happen, and she knew it. He didn’t want to be attracted to her, he didn’t want to feel this instant hunger every time he saw her. But he did; he did . So get over it, Ferreira. She’s not for you.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up over it,’ she murmured now, and to his great astonishment she moved closer. ‘What are you drinking?’ she asked, reaching for his beer. ‘Something alcoholic? I thought you didn’t imbibe.’

  ‘I don’t. Usually.’ Oliver attempted to take the bottle back. ‘Hey, I’ve been drinking from that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said huskily, raising the bottle to her lips and taking a deliberate swallow. ‘I can taste you on the glass.’

  Oliver didn’t know what he’d have done next if his father hadn’t come out onto the patio at that moment. ‘Oh, Grace, my dear,’ he exclaimed, noticing that their visitor was standing beside his son. ‘I hope Oliver’s looking after you. What’s that you’re drinking? Beer? Oh, I’m sure we can do better than that.’

  ‘I like beer,’ Grace replied, going to meet the older man and allowing him to bestow a kiss on each cheek in turn. ‘Very continental,’ she teased, glancing back over her shoulder at Oliver. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Ferreira. You’re looking well.’

  ‘And you look beautiful,’ exclaimed the old man warmly, blossoming under her praise. Oliver, watching them, felt a ridiculous twinge of envy. He wanted to move forward, put a possessive hand about her bare waist, make her as aware of him as he was painfully aware of her. But, of course, he couldn’t.

  ‘What, in this old thing?’ she was saying now, dismissing the sequinned top and clinging skirt with a careless flick of her hand. ‘Actually, I think the skirt’s my mother’s. It’s a little tight for me.’

  ‘In all the right places,’ declared Oliver’s father admiringly, and Oliver, who had never seen his father like this before, wanted to stretch out his hand and yank the old man away from her. What the hell was he doing? Didn’t he know she was no better than Sophie? Why was he treating her as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth? It made Oliver feel physically sick.

  It was a great relief when his mother appeared at the French doors, her eyes taking in the scene on the patio in one all-encompassing glance.

  But, although Oliver half expected her to show some impatience with his father, her smile was warm and genuine. ‘Grace,’ she said, stepping outside to join them. ‘I hope my husband isn’t embarrassing you.’

  ‘As if he could,’ retorted Grace warmly, giving the older woman a hug. ‘He’s an old flatterer, that’s all.’

  ‘An old something anyway,’ murmured Nancy Ferreira drily. Then, turning to her husband, ‘George, go and fetch the tray, will you? I think we’d all like a cocktail before dinner, hmm?’

  ‘At your command,’ agreed her husband gallantly, saluting and heading into the villa again, and Oliver’s mother and Grace exchanged a mischievous look.

  It made Oliver feel as if he was the outsider here and he didn’t like it. His parents had never treated Sophie so affectionately, but then Sophie had never made any attempt to befriend her in-laws. Apart from Tom, that was, and he knew only too well how that had turned out.

  But his mother hadn’t forgotten about him, and presently she turned back, beckoning him to join them. ‘Come and rescue Grace from your father, Oliver,’ she exclaimed. ‘She’s too polite to tell him he’s too old to play the fool.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he said, needing no second bidding, uncaring that Grace was staring at him with wide, frustrated eyes. Then, deftly, he whipped the beer bottle out of her hand. ‘Here’s Dad with the cocktails. You’ll have a Margarita, won’t you, Grace?’

  Her lips tightened for a moment and he half expected her to say something scornful in response. But courtesy—to his parents, he assumed—won out, and turning back to his father, she said, ‘I’d love one. Thanks, Mr Ferreira. This is just what I need.’

  They all helped themselves to a stemmed glass and then, to his embarrassment, his father decided to make a toast. ‘To Oliver,’ he said, raising his glass towards him. ‘It’s good to have you here, son. Now that—well, now that you-know-who is out of the picture, I hope we’re going to see a lot more of you, business notwithstanding.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Mrs Ferreira, linking her arm with Oliver’s and resting her head on his shoulder for a moment. ‘We’ve missed you, my dear. And despite his faults, I know Tom’s missed you, too.’

  Has he? Oliver had the feeling that all Tom had missed was his financial support. But perhaps he was being too cynical. Whatever, so long as his brother was sleeping with Grace, he doubted they could ever resume their friendship.

  But he had to say something, and raising his own glass, he said, ‘I’m glad to be here. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be pampered.’ He grimaced. ‘You always make me feel so welcome. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed his mother, but she brushed rather surreptitiously at the corner of one eye as she spoke. ‘This is your home, Oliver. Just as much as that loft in Newcastle. You’re welcome here at any time.’

  The meal was everything his mother had hoped it would be. A spicy fish soup was followed by the tender chicken breasts, and the caramel-flavoured custard was, as Grace so aptly put it, ‘To die for!’

  ‘You can thank Oliver for that,’ declared Mrs Ferreira, unknowingly eliciting another sardonic glance in his direction from their guest. ‘It’s his favourite. I made it especially for him.’

  ‘How sweet!’

  Grace managed not to sound as if she was
being sarcastic, but Oliver knew better. If she could have taken back the compliment, she would have done so. But she couldn’t. So live with it, he muttered to himself savagely, resenting the implication that he was the prodigal son.

  They had coffee on the patio, the warm night air such a difference from the coolness back home. But Oliver was restless. He was finding it increasingly difficult to behave as if he and Grace were just casual acquaintances and it didn’t help that she seemed to take every opportunity to provoke him.

  ‘Do you spend a lot of time in Spain, Oliver?’ she asked with apparent innocence, and he met her cool green gaze with wary eyes.

  ‘Unfortunately, I don’t often have the chance to get away,’ he replied evenly, hoping that would be an end of this particular topic, but his mother chimed in as usual.

  ‘That’s what he’s always said,’ she declared, eyeing her son reprovingly. ‘But we’re hoping that’s going to change in the future.’

  ‘Oh?’ Grace arched an inquiring brow. ‘May I ask why?’

  No, you may not, Oliver thought grimly, suspicious of where this was leading, but his mother saw no such pitfall.

  ‘Now that Sophie’s out of the picture,’ she confided, causing her son to grit his teeth. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you the trouble that woman’s caused in this family.’

  ‘I don’t think Grace needs to hear this,’ Oliver protested now with some asperity, but Mrs Ferreira only cast him a defensive look.

  ‘Why not? It’s no secret,’ she declared. ‘And Grace isn’t likely to go gossiping about it to all and sundry.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Grace was quick to reassure them, but Oliver didn’t trust her benign expression. ‘I’m sure you must all be very relieved that he’s found someone else.’

  Ah! Oliver’s lips tightened in sudden comprehension, but there was no stopping his mother.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she exclaimed eagerly. ‘I’m sure Miranda’s nothing like Sophie.’

  ‘Miranda?’ Was he the only one who noticed that Grace’s questions were becoming increasingly personal? ‘And have you met her?’