Falling For His Proper Mistress (8 page)

What was she hiding?

Was she meeting someone—hell, be honest—he wanted
to know if she was meeting Todd. He swallowed the bile in the back of his throat. Had they become an item in his absence?

Guy suspected he was being unreasonable…he'd never reacted with this kind of unwarranted jealousy with his other girlfriends. But then he'd never experienced this degree of turmoil over any of them.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said finally.

“What about?”

Suddenly it all felt flat. This call wasn't going the way he'd planned. “It doesn't matter.”

“We can talk when I get back—sorry, I have to go now.”

Guy stared at his BlackBerry in disbelief. She'd killed the call. No woman ended a call until
he
was good and ready…it was always he who cut the woman short. In New York Avery had been openly admiring, now she barely had time for him. He didn't like the role reversal one little bit.

But why the hell did it matter?

He didn't want her to love him. The last thing he wanted was a needy woman—he'd made it his life's mission to avoid them. All he wanted was sex. Good sex. No, he wanted more, he wanted great sex. The kind of sex he'd always had with Avery.

But that didn't explain this sudden pressing need to talk to her about how the Go Green meetings had gone.

Guy shook his head, confused.

The sooner he got Avery back into his bed the better. In his experience sex fixed everything.

B
ack in her hotel room, Avery stood in the bathroom and stared at the applicator stick.

The emotion that surged through her at the sight of the single pink line was not the relief she'd expected. Instead she felt unaccountably sad.

Her throat was tight and achy. She wanted to cry.

There'd been two tests in the box she'd driven to Aspen to buy earlier. Both had given the same result.

One pink line.

Not pregnant.

It's for the best, she tried to convince herself. It was what Guy had wanted. What she should've wanted, too. If she'd had any sense.

She ought to be dancing around with delighted relief. Not staring at the second stick praying for the second pink line to appear.

Because she wanted a baby. She longed for a family.

And, damn it, she wanted Guy, too. All in the same breath. Even though she knew such pie-in-the-sky dreams were utterly impossible.

Pink.
She felt downright blue.

A knock sounded on the door of her room.

Avery stuck the traitorous stick back into the box and hurried out of the bathroom.

Wrenching the door open she found Guy on the other side.

Horrors. For a moment she couldn't marshal her thoughts. All she could think of was the telltale pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom slab, incriminating evidence of all her dashed hopes.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she stuttered. For a wild moment she considered slamming the door in his face.

“I came to help you move your stuff.”

“Move my stuff?” She retreated into the room, and barely noticed that he'd followed.

“Didn't Reception call? I've changed your room.” He frowned as he scanned it. “I didn't know you were given a room in this wing. The view isn't great.”

“It doesn't matter—I spend so little time here. Frankly, I'd be grateful for a broom cupboard, I know how scarce accommodation in Aspen is.”

“Now's not too bad, but during the ski season it's diabolical.”

She didn't bother to remind him she wouldn't be here for the ski season.

He strode across the room.

“Where are you going?” she squawked, intent on distracting him before he entered the bathroom and discovered the tell-tale stick. She'd already told him she wasn't pregnant, she didn't want him doubting her.

Instead he stopped just to the left of the door to the bathroom, and threw open the wardrobe doors.

Avery's breath whooshed out in a gust of relief.

He spoke into the wardrobe. “It shouldn't take you long to pack up.”

“I'm not packing up.”

“If you don't want to move into another room, you can move in with me. Because you never did give me an answer. And I've been very patient, I've given you more time than you need.”

She stared at his back, achingly conscious of the shaggy length of his hair where it brushed the collar of his T-shirt.

“I'm not moving into your quarters.”

“The view is far better from my suite upstairs.”

She wished she could see his face. “I'm sure it is. But as I just said, I'm not in my room enough for it to matter.”

He spun away from the wardrobe.

Avery caught a glimpse of tumult in the dark gray eyes, before his jaw firmed, and he moved toward her with long, swinging strides.

Hooking his arms around her shoulders, he bent his head until his forehead touched her hair.

“I want you with me,” he said into the cave of space between them.

Oh, dear heaven. How was she supposed to resist this?

If only he'd been a different kind of man…

A family man.

But he wasn't. And she had to be strong. She had to resist.

“I'm not going to have an affair with you.”

“And I'm not going to accept no for an answer.”

Her breath whooshed out in frustration. “You have to accept it. You can't force me to move in with you.”

“I can certainly use every advantage I have to persuade you.” His lips brushed hers in a light teasing kiss.

“I need some space,” she said desperately.

“Why? Just admit you want me.” He kissed her again, his mouth lingering on hers. Unfair!

“We're working together. Trying to keep a professional distance.” Her breath mingled with his. “We're both going to need space, time away from each other. Otherwise we'll drive each other crazy.” And she refused to let herself fall in love with him all over again.

“I don't want any space between us….” He pulled her up against his body. “Almost a week has already slipped away, I want to spend every remaining minute we have together.”

He sunk his tongue into her mouth in a primitive act of possession that sent a thrill of desire along Avery's bloodstream.

The sentiment was all well and good, but Avery knew he didn't mean it. Not in the way that she needed him to mean it. All he was talking about was sex.

He wanted her within reach all night long.

And first thing in the morning, if it came to it.

Guy was a demanding lover. He'd take whatever she gave, without giving much of himself in return. Having her in his bed, at his convenience, didn't mean he wanted to be close to her.

Not in any of the ways that really mattered.

Avery drew away. “No. I'm keeping my stuff in my room. This room. I'm not your lover anymore. I don't want special treatment. I don't want the staff, your family, thinking that I am your lover.”

His hand brushed her hair off her face, his touch so gentle her throat thickened. “I'm not going to give up until you agree.”

She was going to have to spell it out this time. So that he'd understand and never ask again. She couldn't bear this.

“Because I've worked damn hard to get where I am. And I'm not having anyone denigrating my efforts by saying that I got there because I slept with one of the Almighty Jarrods.”

“That didn't matter to you in New York.”

“Because I didn't know you were a Jarrod then—not one of these Jarrods.” She drew a steadying breath, refusing to be provoked. “And in New York I didn't know anyone—I was on temporary assignment. Here, at the Food and Wine Gala, there are a lot of people I know. People who respect me. People who may offer me work.”

She tilted her head back and gazed up at him.

“How long do you think their respect will last once they know I'm living in your penthouse suite?”

“It won't be like that.”

“It's always like that. Everyone will think me a lucky little gold digger who landed a rich lover—exactly what you accused me of only a few days ago.”

His gaze fell before hers.

“I apologize, I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, you shouldn't. Your apology is accepted. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm not moving in with you.”

There was a long pause. Avery tensed, waiting for an argument, for him to sweep her up in his arms, for something.

But he only said, “We need to work on the presentation we're giving tomorrow.”

Back to work. The professional relationship that was all she could ever afford to share with him.

So why did she want to sag with disappointment that he'd accepted her decision? At least she knew she could deal with Guy on the work front.

Hurriedly she said, “Well, we might as well talk about both presentations.” The second presentation was next Wednesday, less than a week away. “Give me an hour, I'll come up to your suite.” She made herself give him a cheeky smile. “Have dinner ready, but don't think that you can change my mind about staying the night.”

 

Avery was true to her word.

The intercom buzzed exactly an hour later—and Guy activated the private elevator for her to come up, then opened the door to his suite.

She stepped into his living room, a tote slung over her shoulder and a bright smile on her face. She was wearing high-heel slides, a pair of her trademark white jeans and a strawberry-ice silk blouse that clung to her curves. She looked good enough to lick.

“Come in,” said Guy huskily.

“Oh, that looks good.”

Her attention had homed in on an array of mouthwatering tapas spread on the low square coffee table where two sofas sat beside the empty fireplace. “Funny how the sight of food always seems to remind me of how long it's been since I last ate.”

“Room service,” he said laconically.

She slid him an amused look as she sat down on the nearest sofa. “And there I thought you'd been slaving in the kitchen preparing our meal. You still owe me a meal—you promised to make me one in New York, and you never did.”

Never again. He'd done that on the night of her birthday…and had been left cooling his heels while she entertained herself with Jeff.

“We've got a lot of work to get through,” he said tersely. “Let's get started.”

She didn't take the hint. “You know, while I stayed with you most of our food was take out from Baratin's—”

“What's wrong with that? Most women would kill to never have to cook.”

“I cooked.”

“Very occasionally—and then only breakfast.” He tipped his head to the side. “Now that I think back, it was toast and cereal most mornings.”

“Do you have any idea how intimidating it is to cook for a chef? Obviously not! Except you never cooked—I'm seriously beginning to wonder if you actually know how to cook, or whether you're just a fraud.” She slanted him a teasing glance from under those fluttery eyelashes.

Despite the gloom that the memory of her birthday had cast over him, Guy found himself laughing. She'd always been able to charm a smile from him.

“Avery, that's something I sometimes wonder myself. I employ chefs these days. I seem to spend more time doing paperwork and juggling numbers than cooking. The business courses Dad insisted I take are being used more than my chef credentials.”

“I'm always impressed when I watch food shows.” She leaned back on the couch, folding her hands behind her head. With her glinting eyes half closed, she was all temptress. “Those so efficient chefs, chopping onions without weeping, producing masterpieces in minutes. You'll have to show me how it's done.”

Guy suppressed the urge to rush to the kitchen, don an apron, anything to impress her. Been there, never again. “Maybe one day.”

But he had no intention of exposing himself that way again.

Avery kicked off her slides. Guy caught a glimpse of pink-
tipped toes before she tucked her feet underneath her. From her tote, she drew out a black notebook and a pen.

“Okay, so where shall we start?”

Guy was still admiring the picture she made, the way her white jeans clung to her thighs, and fantasizing about feeding her strawberries that he'd flambéed to impress her then licking the flavour from her lips.

Caught off guard by her businesslike demeanor he found himself stuttering, “Uh…I have a PowerPoint presentation that will provide some material.”

She tipped her face toward the flat-screen television that dominated the wall across from where she sat, then looked expectantly back at him. “Let's watch it.”

Hell, he hadn't linked his laptop.

Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “When we've finished talking.”

She shifted, a little wriggle that had Guy clenching his teeth in frustration, before she settled again.

He barely knew what they talked about for the next twenty minutes, except that Avery seemed to take copious notes…and make numerous suggestions—none of which he was likely to retain.

Not when she was such a tempting distraction.

Finally, Avery closed her notebook with a snap and said, “Good, that should wrap it up.”

Guy was simply relieved that the torture was at an end. Until she reached for a toothpick and speared a piece of spicy chorizo with it. Popping it in her mouth, she chewed, head tilted to one side, then said, “That was very tasty. There's a smoky flavor that would go well with an oaked and well-aged red made from tempranillo grapes.”

“That would be a great match.”

A frown furrowed her brow. “I detect a spice I can't place.”

Guy tried to tell himself that this was still work. Matching food and wine. But his body refused to believe him. All he could do was stare at her mouth like a hungry hound after a meal.

“Have you eaten?”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice. “You should.”

With delicate grace she took a second toothpick out of the white porcelain holder and spiked a piece of chorizo then added a sun-dried tomato, and offered it to him.

His heart thumped.

He bent his head, took it from her fingers, aware of the unconscious eroticism of the gesture.

The sweetness of the tomato and the spicy sausage complemented one another.

“What do you think?” Her brow had crinkled. “Can you identify that elusive spice?”

“Pimentón,” he said huskily, watching her help herself to a shrimp cake. “Spanish paprika.”

She snapped her fingers. “You're right.” Then she speared a fat, shiny black olive. “So,” she said, “what thoughts do you have about the menus for the restaurants?”

This was work, what Jarrod Ridge was paying her for. No doubt she'd be keeping track of every second to bill the resort. He forced himself to concentrate. “A total re-vamp.”

Another olive went the same way as the last. Guy almost growled. But he managed to feed himself and stanch some of the physical hunger. Too soon the platters on the table were empty.

“When are you going to put the PowerPoint on?”

She had to be joking, right?

One glance revealed she wasn't. The notebook was propped against her thigh, and a pencil twisted between her fingers. She expected them to work. Guy suppressed a sigh
and hooked his laptop up to the flat screen. Then he settled down on the couch beside her.