The Accidental Mistress Read online

  She handed Izzy Jemima’s matching cream leather bags. ‘You look fine. Remember: think like Cleopatra. Walk like a goddess.’

  Izzy took a deep breath. ‘I can do this,’ she said, as much to herself as to Pepper. ‘I can.’

  Pepper tucked a stray drift of hair back into the complicated plait they had managed between them this morning.

  ‘Sure you can. You’re over twenty-one, you’re on dry land and you have heated rollers,’ she said encouragingly.

  ‘I have indeed,’ said Izzy with well-simulated gaiety.

  ‘You’re a star,’ said Pepper, moved. She knew Izzy well enough by now not to be deceived by the gaiety.

  ‘I’m an idiot with a stubborn streak,’ corrected Izzy wryly. ‘Oh, well, everyone should do a Mission Impossible once in their lives, I guess.’

  She put back her shoulders and scampered down the stairs, ready to do battle with Dominic Templeton-Burke. She would give it her best shot. And her best shot was good. Especially when it was for the sake of her sister’s peace of mind.

  Or was it?

  Izzy came to a halt so fast the squashy bag over her shoulder swung out and nearly tipped her down the rest of the stairs.

  What am I thinking? If it weren’t for Jemima, I wouldn’t go anywhere near this man without full body armour and flare goggles. He’s just altogether too macho.

  And a little bit of her said, Then it’s going to be interesting to see what happens when you have to leave the body armour behind. Isn’t it?

  No! Izzy recoiled from the thought so sharply she staggered.

  But that treacherous inner voice said, oh yes it will. And you know it.

  You may want to forget the night you met, but your body doesn’t. No matter what you say, the two of you have a whole lot more in common than an unbridled salsa. The guy only has to look at you and your temperature rises.

  With temper, Izzy assured herself, fighting back.

  Oh, really? And the way your fingers start to shake, ever so slightly, when he touches you? That’s a spontaneous nerve spasm, I suppose?

  There was no answer to that. ‘Damn,’ muttered Izzy between her teeth. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’

  Think like Cleopatra! Walk like a goddess!

  Tremble like a teenager? No way!

  She was not going to fall for the man. She was not. She went the rest of the way to meet him like the Goddess of Battles.

  Dominic was waiting on the doorstep. The battered off-road vehicle sat at the kerb in the smallest possible parking space.

  Show-off, thought Izzy, glad to be able to start off hostile. She was a dashing and adventurous driver but her parking was not elegant.

  He took the cases from her and did not try to kiss her.

  Izzy had been fully prepared to evade any embrace he offered. But the fact that he didn’t try annoyed her unreasonably.

  He beamed at her. ‘Congratulations, you’re on time.’

  ‘I’m always on time,’ retorted Izzy—and then remembered, too late, that Jemima’s poor time-keeping was notorious.

  Ouch. First mistake and we aren’t even off the doorstep!

  But Dominic did not point it out. Maybe he was the one person Jemima had never kept waiting? It wasn’t a comfortable thought. What sort of relationship would ditzy Jay Jay have with a man that she cared enough to be on time for? Oh, Jay Jay, do you really like him? Just the possibility made Izzy pull a face, as if she were in pain.

  Izzy nearly turned round and went back into the house. The only thing that prevented her was Dominic stuffing her cases into the back of his four-wheel drive.

  ‘Gorgeous and punctual. You are one unique woman. Nothing new there, then.’

  He shut the boot and gave her a lingering smile. It reminded Izzy horribly of Jemima’s knowing lecture on body language. Dominic had clearly been to the same life coach.

  Izzy set her teeth and smiled back. It made her jaw ache.

  Damn, he was looking good this morning. Gone were the combats and the devil-may-care challenge. Today he was wearing fairly respectable jeans and a cotton shirt that someone—who?—had bothered to iron at some point. The sleeves were rolled up, though. And the powerful forearms gave him away.

  He might choose to play the English gentleman for a few hours, if it amused him. But this was a man who could hack his way through the jungle with a toothpick if he wanted to, thought Izzy. Probably had done, come to think of it.

  Just as well to remember that, she instructed herself. If he decided to stop being a gentleman there was not a lot she would be able to do to oppose him physically. The idea made her feel oddly breathless.

  Oh, pu-lease, she said to herself in disgust. Get a grip! The man is not going to throw you over his shoulder and carry you off like a pirate. And what’s more you’d kick him where it hurts if he tried.

  Er—I hope!

  These thoughts were so unsettling that she pretended not to see his offer of a helping hand into the vehicle. Instead she scrambled up nimbly into the passenger seat.

  ‘So where are we going?’ she asked, all bright enthusiasm.

  His hand fell but he did not move round to the driver’s side immediately. Instead he stood there, just looking at her, his eyes quizzical and surprisingly intent.

  Intent enough to start up that slight tremor in her betraying hands again. Doing her best to ignore it, Izzy raised her voice and repeated her question.

  He seemed to come back to the present with reluctance.

  ‘What? Oh. Gloucestershire. I’m opening a village fête.’

  She wished he would stop looking at her mouth.

  ‘How exciting!’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think so? Now, I’d have expected you to be doing that sort of thing all the time.’

  Izzy could have kicked herself. ‘Oh, well, yes. But that’s different.’ She sought desperately for a reason why it might be different and came up with rather a good one. ‘When I open a fête the punters are not looking at me. They’re looking at the clothes.’

  Inspired, she thought, pleased with herself.

  Two deep clefts drove themselves down either side of Dominic’s mouth. It appeared that he was trying hard not to laugh—and it hurt. He leaned into the car and shook his head slowly.

  ‘Nope. Think you’re wrong there.’ And he gave her another of those long, appreciative looks from the Jemima Dare school of meaningful glances. It did nothing at all for her peace of mind.

  But at least it stopped the trembling. Izzy was just so mad at him that for a moment she managed to forget that she fancied him like crazy, too.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said frostily. ‘Shall we go, then?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  And from the wicked look in his eyes he really meant that. Izzy could have screamed.

  But screaming would have meant he’d scored a point. So instead she folded her hands in her lap so hard that her nails dug into her palms.

  What would Jemima do now? she asked herself. She certainly wouldn’t sit there glaring at the road ahead. She would swing round in her seat, look adoringly at the handsome driver and ask him interested questions about himself.

  Well, so will I, thought Izzy grimly. If it kills me.

  She had a couple of goes. The adoring look gave her a problem. But in the end she managed some girlish conversation.

  ‘Gloucestershire,’ she mused. ‘Isn’t that a bit tame for a major explorer?’

  ‘Maybe. But there are a lot more punters there than there are in the Southern Ocean.’

  ‘Punters?’

  He swung the big vehicle out onto the motorway. ‘We’ve got a bit of a hole in the sponsorship. So opening the fête is all part of drumming up support.’

  In spite of herself, Izzy was interested. ‘Do you have to do lots of that?’

  He was rueful. ‘More than I like. But this time I thought I’d got it all sewn up.’ His voice hardened. ‘Only then we ran into a small local difficulty.’

  Izzy looke
d at him sharply. She saw that he was gripping the wheel as if it were a personal enemy he wanted to throttle. ‘Bad?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘I can handle it.’

  A no-go area, she deduced. She wondered why—and was surprised at how much she wanted to know.

  Stop it, she told herself. You don’t want him confiding in you. You don’t want to get any closer to Dominic Templeton-Burke than you absolutely have to.

  So instead she said, ‘Is it difficult, fundraising?’

  He pulled a face, but she saw that his hands unclenched on the steering wheel.

  ‘Not if you have the temperament for it. I admit I’m not good at doing the cabaret.’

  She was curious. ‘That sounds as if you know other people who are.’

  He gave a wry laugh. ‘You are so right. Before I’ve always been one of a team. The other guys have written the books and done the after-dinner speaking. This time the team stays at base camp and I’m the only one out on the ice. So I’m the one the punters want to see.’

  ‘And you don’t like it,’ deduced Izzy.

  He gave a harsh sigh. ‘Hell, no. Though God knows why. It was good enough for Shackleton.’

  She was startled. ‘What?’

  ‘Ernest Shackleton. He raised all the funds for his Antarctic expedition personally. He did anything he had to. People laughed at him but he wasn’t proud. He gave magic lantern shows, tours of a museum he set up on his ship—anything to turn an honest penny. Who am I to turn my nose up at a bit of ribbon cutting and judging the bonny baby competition?’

  He sounded so wretched about it that Izzy felt an unwelcome stirring of sympathy.

  ‘It sounds as if Shackleton is your hero.’

  ‘Oh, yes. An amazing man.’ His voice warmed. “‘For speed and efficiency of travel, give me Amundsen. For scientific discovery, give me Scott. But when disaster strikes and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for Shackleton.”’

  Izzy was impressed. ‘That sounds like a quotation.’

  ‘It is. Priestley. Another Antarctic explorer.’ He drew a long breath. ‘Your peers. That’s the praise you want.’

  It was a glimpse into the heart of the man, and rather sobering. Izzy stayed quiet, digesting it, until they reached the Cotswold village he said was their destination.

  She looked round at a quiet street with a stream running along one side of it, flanked by gingerbread houses. They all had thatched roofs, ancient beams and tubs of geraniums outside.

  ‘Your home village?’

  He laughed aloud. ‘No, I come from a long line of rugged Yorkshiremen. This weekend we’re staying with the Blackthornes. They’re distant cousins on my mother’s side.

  Izzy recalled his instructions on her wardrobe. ‘No doubt very grand cousins,’ she said dryly. ‘I suppose that’s why I’m hauling something smart for the evening?’

  He chuckled. ‘Grand-ish.’

  ‘And what’s smart about this evening?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a dance. One of the daughters is getting engaged.’ He sent her a laughing look. ‘They’ve got the best Cuban band in the country. You’ll enjoy that.’

  Izzy went very still. She could feel her heart going der-donk, der-donk so hard that it seemed he must hear it. Blame it on the salsa, she thought faintly. Did he remember? Did he suspect?

  She moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘Me? Why?’ Even though it was only two words, her voice skidded all over the place.

  Dom raised his eyebrows. ‘Born dancer,’ he said laconically.

  Izzy digested that. Her mind was in turmoil. Did he mean that remembered the nightclub and that mad, sexy salsa they had done together? Was he telling her that he knew she wasn’t Jemima?

  Just for a moment she thought: I can stop pretending. It was like walking up into light from a dark cellar. She turned to him impulsively.

  But before she could ask he swung the vehicle off the main road onto a badly surfaced single-track road. It jolted Izzy back to her senses.

  No, she couldn’t stop pretending. No matter how much she wanted to. Not until Jemima was safe. Not until Jemima had found herself a solicitor and put some distance between herself and that manager she seemed so afraid of. Not, thought Izzy, aching, until Monday at the earliest.

  She swallowed and sank back into her seat. She had to keep up the pretence through this weekend. She had to. Jemima’s sanity might just depend on it.

  She said in a small wooden voice, ‘Thank you.’ And then, because she could not resist it, ‘But my sister Izzy is the real dancer in our family. She went all round Latin America and sent back photographs of her bopping at village hops. Izzy is the one who would really love your Cuban band.’

  She held her breath.

  But he was concentrating on taking the big off-roader down the narrow track between dry stone walls. Izzy was not even sure he had heard her.

  Eventually, she let out a long sigh and the tension went out of her. Another danger point passed! He still did not detect the deception they were practising on him, she and Jemima. She told herself she was delighted. A blow for female solidarity! But it felt like a hollow victory, somehow.

  In silence, Dominic drove up and up, so that the little village in the valley was far behind. They went along a stony track, through an unkempt meadow full of waving blue and scarlet flowers. Izzy made herself relax. She looked round—and was startled.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said on a long note of wonder.

  ‘Country girl at heart?’ asked Dominic, looking down at her briefly.

  Izzy shook her head. ‘Not at all. We were small-town born and bred, my sister and I. And went to the Mediterranean for summer holidays. I don’t even remember a camping trip in the country.’

  He was taken aback. ‘But you’ve seen a wild flower meadow before?’

  ‘In picture books,’ said Izzy, gazing at the vista before her. ‘Old picture books. Or maybe a medieval tapestry. Nothing like this. Look at that blue flower. It’s like a branch full of stars. What is it?’

  But Dominic shrugged. ‘I’m no botanist. Try me on rock formations.’

  Izzy gave a choke of laughter. ‘I was forgetting. You prefer jungles, deserts and ice floes, right?’ Just for a moment she took her eyes off the magical meadow to see how he took her teasing.

  He did not look at her again, but his mouth curved appreciatively as he kept his eyes on the rutted track ahead.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘Anywhere dangerous—that’s for me. English meadows are just no challenge.’

  Izzy snorted in mock outrage. But privately she believed him.

  Pretty meadows might be pleasant for a casual weekend. But he was a man who needed to be stretched. Even the steepest slope on this gentle hillside would not stretch him.

  Out of nowhere came the thought: And nor would my Jemima. She’s as gentle as these sweet meadows. No challenge there either. Wouldn’t do for you at all. You need someone who’ll stand and fight you when you’re wrong, my love.

  My love?

  Izzy went cold.

  Love?

  ‘Stop,’ she said distractedly.

  Dominic did turn his head at that. ‘What?’

  ‘Stop. I want to get out.’ Suddenly she could not bear being so close to him and having to pretend. ‘I need to—breathe.’

  At once he brought the vehicle to a halt and killed the engine. He wound the window down and they were engulfed in a murmurous hum. Birds. Insects. Leaves stirring in the faintest of breezes.

  Izzy leaned out. All about her was the glory of late summer. In the sky a hawk of some kind was lazily riding the thermal drafts. Butterflies skimmed across clumps of flowers, their wings cream and pale lemon and tortoiseshell in the still air. The air smelled of mown grass.

  She was in love with the last man in the world she ought to let herself think about in that way. She wanted to touch him so much it hurt. And she couldn’t. Jemima depended on her. She couldn’t.

  She would have give
n anything to tell Dom what was in her heart at that moment. Maybe she would never have the chance again. Maybe he would never know who she really was. Maybe if he did he would feel so cheated that he would never want to see her again.

  The butterflies danced. Izzy’s eyes blurred.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she said huskily. She drew a shaky breath. ‘I want to remember it always.’

  He looked at her oddly. ‘Remember it? You sound as if you’re saying goodbye.’

  ‘Nothing lasts,’ said Izzy sadly. She struggled tell him the truth about something, at least. ‘Look at it. You can almost touch the sunlight. Taste it, even. There’s a poem about how important it is to remember the good stuff. It must have been written on a day like this.’

  Dominic snorted. ‘There’s more to life than poetry,’ he said irritably.

  Izzy was recalled to her responsibilities. Jemima was not a great reader. ‘Of course. I only meant that it was so beautiful I wanted to hang onto it.’

  He said abruptly, ‘Okay. Want to get out?’

  She looked at the mown hillside longingly. ‘Can we? I mean, we’re blocking the lane.’

  He was unconcerned. ‘It’s not a lane. It’s the back drive.’ he said indifferently.

  Such arrogance!

  Izzy was about to point it out. But then he went on, ‘If my lady wants to walk, she must walk.’

  And she could not think of a single thing to say.

  His lady? His lady? Oh, my love, if only you knew…

  Stop it, Izzy. Everything is a joke to this man. He is teasing you, that’s all.

  But if he weren’t teasing…If he took her hand and told her his secrets and…

  It’s teasing, Izzy interrupted the fantasy hardily. The only question is whether he’s teasing you because you said the glorious field looked like a medieval painting or he can’t resist and it’s just generalised flirting.

  She must not forget that he was a fully qualified graduate of the Jemima Dare School! She must not let herself fall into the trap of wanting him to hold her.

  I am out of my depth here.

  He buffed her cheek gently. ‘Don’t look so worried. If anyone wants to pass, they’ll sound their horn.’

  Izzy let out a shaken sigh of relief. Thank heavens he had found his own explanation for her anxiety. It fitted, even if it was wrong. And it let her off the hook—this time.