Kathleen Creighton - Undercover Mistress

A powerful sense of awe and pride and love thumped her in the chest, and she thought: I must not let him see I’m afraid. I can’t…won’t let him down…

It was then, with those thoughts in her mind and awash in the attendant devastating emotions, that she looked up and saw their cause coming toward her…slim and elegant in blazer and slacks…sun glancing like sparks off the silver in his hair. Her breathing grew shallow and quick with desire…as it always did when she saw him dressed up in beautifully cut clothes. She thought: He should have been a movie star. In Hollywood’s golden age…my parents’ time. He’d have been a natural.

Oh, how she wished she could let him know how she felt. Wished she could let her desire for him show in her eyes…say flattering, seductive things to him with a smile on her lips and the promise of sex in her voice. If Doc was right about him being in love with her… Oh, but how could he be, when he only looked at her with coldness? With such an impassive expression and unreadable eyes?

And even if Doc was right…this wasn’t the time or the place for it-for love or sex. Or promises.

“You’re late,” she said and casually turned a page.

“Some of the other members of the tour had questions,” Roy said. Still mad, he thought as he gazed down at tiny twin images of himself reflected in her sunglasses. Just as well.

And if it was just as well, why was it beginning to irritate him so much? What had he done that was so awful? Just tried to keep her out of a situation that could get her killed, was all, and this was the thanks he got? Well, hell.

A white-jacketed waiter came by, offering glasses of champagne on a tray. Roy shook his head, and Celia waved the waiter away with her most charming smile.

Roy waited until both the waiter and Celia’s smile had gone, then said in an icy undertone, “You think you could try a little harder to pretend to be nice to me? I thought we’re supposed to be this…loving couple. What the hell are these people gonna think?”

“They’ll think we’re having a lovers’ quarrel, of course,” Celia said without looking up from the book she was reading. “I suspect next week’s tabloids will be full of the news of our impending breakup.” She flashed the twin mirrors at him again. “The timing should be just about perfect, shouldn’t it? Assuming this cruise goes the way we hope.”

She closed the book, keeping her finger between the pages to mark her place. “Speaking of which…did you turn up anything?”

He let out a breath as he sat on the couch…or bed, or chaise longue, or whatever…next to hers. “Nothing. Far as I can tell with these things, the damn boat’s clean.”

He leaned over and opened the handbag that was sitting on the deck beside her bed, carefully unfastened the strap that had held the palm-size instrument in place above his wrist, hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, and returned it to its concealed compartment in the handbag. Then, for the benefit of anyone who might have been watching, he took out a tube of sunscreen.

“What’s that for?” Celia asked, watching warily as he squeezed a small dollop of cream into the palm of his hand.

“Just in case we’re being monitored. Take off your glasses.” He waited, silent and dispassionate, for her to comply with his order, then dipped the tip of his index finger into the cream, leaned over and, ignoring her startled flinch, smeared it in a line down the ridge of her nose.

What the hell. He could deliver the cold shoulder as well as the next guy, if that was the way she wanted it.

Only trouble was, there wasn’t any part of him, including his shoulders, feeling cold just then. His heart was an engine bent on pumping heat into the farthest reaches of his body; sweat beaded on his forehead, pooled under his arms and trickled down his ribs. His skin felt feverish, as if he were the one who’d been too long in the sun.

He kept his eyes focused on what his fingers were doing and tried not to let himself think about what her eyes might be telling him. He couldn’t think of anything that could possibly be written in those incredible baby blues of hers that wasn’t going to make him feel worse than he already did.

Slowly, he wiped the slippery sunscreen all over her nose, then smeared some onto her cheeks…smoothed out the watermark frown in the middle of her forehead…massaged what was left in his palm over her chin and throat. And while he was doing all that he was remembering the way he’d felt when she’d done almost the same thing to him, that day in her kitchen with Max looking on. He wondered whether she felt the same way he had then-angry, helpless, half-suffocated with arousal.

He could only hope so, dammit. Serve her right.

“Don’t get burned,” he said as he rose, rubbing his hands together.

She calmly lifted her sunglasses, slipped them on and opened her book. “I don’t intend to,” she replied softly.

Had to have the last word, did she? After the briefest of hesitations, he decided to let her have it.

As the day wore on and the Bibi Lilith churned steadily toward Mexican waters, Roy resigned himself to a return to the role he’d grown accustomed to playing during the past weeks: that of R. J. Cassidy, Canadian billionaire and consort of Hollywood royal, Celia Cross. Whether in the lounge, the dining salon, or gathered around the hot tub on the yacht’s stern deck, his place was on the fringes of the crowd, where he lounged casually, sipped Mexican beer and watched Celia charm and entrance…keeping his own expression indulgent, perhaps just a bit sardonic.

Always when he did that, while he watched her and marveled at her beauty, her charm, her grace, he felt a sadness come over him and heaviness settle around his heart. How perfectly she fits that world, he thought. How easily she blends into it, how comfortable she is with all those wealthy, talented, famous and beautiful people.

And why not? They were her people. It was her world; she was born into it, had never known any other. She belonged to it.

He didn’t. And never would. It was that simple.

At that moment, as if she’d felt his eyes, or maybe the intensity of his thoughts, in the midst of a laughing conversation, Celia happened to look up and lock eyes with him across the crowded, noisy lounge. As her smile slowly faded, Roy lifted his beer bottle toward her in an ironic little salute.

He would have drained the rest of it then, but his throat ached too much to swallow.

The next time Celia looked up, Roy had gone.

Disappointment slammed into her, and for the first time she understood what it meant to feel “crushed.” She felt flat and deflated, like a beach ball run over by a truck, all the air and bounce and joy gone out of her.

As soon as she reasonably could, she excused herself and, carrying her champagne glass and remembering at the last moment to take her new and unfamiliar handbag with her, slipped out of the lounge and went to look for him. Music followed her as she went from deck to deck, all brightly lit and party-festive, and she raised her glass and smiled at the people she met, standing, strolling or sitting in pairs or small groups, murmuring and laughing together.

She’d never felt so isolated…so alienated. So lonely.

Roy, where are you? I miss you. I need you.

Unable to bear the thought of rejoining the noisy crowd in the lounge, she decided to go back to her stateroom. Then her stomach clenched, and she thought, No, not mine. Ours. And how, she wondered, are we going to share a room tonight? A bed?

Pain caught at her throat and shuddered through her chest. Pain and regret and longing. This could have been so different…so wonderful. It should be wonderful, shouldn’t it? Love? Why does it have to hurt so much?

She inserted her card key into its slot and opened the door-and checked, cold and tingling, as if she’d touched live electric wires. Roy was standing in front of the dressing table, struggling with his ascot. His eyes, blue and glaring, glanced off the mirror and collided with hers.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Celia was floating toward him, unaware of heartbeat or breath, the carpeted floor unfelt beneath her feet.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Here, let me help you with that,” she said. Her voice sounded sharp and bright in her ears, like the tinkle of wind chimes. She lifted her hands to the front of his shirt.

He made a sharp hissing sound, and his hands closed around her wrists. He stared down at her and his eyes seemed to smolder behind the blue contacts. “Don’t need your help.”

She stared back, unflinching. “Yes, you do.”

It was a standoff that could only end one way, given the circumstances. The moment and the tension stretched until they couldn’t anymore, until, with a harsh sound that was either anguish or anger-perhaps both-Roy lowered his mouth to hers.

There was violence and frustration, hunger and despair in the way he kissed her…in the way he crushed her to him…in the way she kissed him back-her hands clawed at his shoulders and clung to the back of his neck. Mouths opened…devoured. Teeth nipped and clashed…tongues dueled rather than mated. Breaths came in pants and whimpers, a primitive combat in which no words were spoken.

Undressing was a battle fought without regard for collateral damage, either to flesh or fabric. Fingers raked, buttons popped, seams ripped and in the end, the tattered remnants of the evening’s costumes lay strewn across the field of conflict like so many casualties of war. And even when they were both naked, the struggle continued. Hair was gathered and clutched in greedy handfuls. Teeth bruised and nails raked in ways that would leave marks for days to come but in those frantic moments went unnoticed.