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The Playboy's Mistress
KIM LAWRENCE
When Darcy was persuaded to host her family's Christmas gathering, she started making detailed lists and mentally prepared herself for a hectic couple of weeks. But her plans were disrupted by a surprise new neighbor–a playboy tycoon, who seemed to know exactly what he wanted to give Darcy for Christmas!As far as Reece Erskine was concerned, Christmas couldn't be over soon enough. But he was quite happy to give Darcy a few kisses–and much, much more–under the mistletoe. In fact, he insisted on it!
“I’m not about to sleep with you!”
“You know you want to,” Reece replied.
Darcy gasped. “That,” she snapped, “is an incredibly arrogant thing to say.”
“Maybe, but it’s true,” he returned imperturbably. “I find you quite incredibly exciting.”
Eyes a little wild, Darcy tilted her head to maintain eye contact as Reece came closer…and closer. “I think you must be thinking of someone else.”
Reece took her small face between his big hands. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, so shut up and kiss me, woman….”
KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in rural Anglesey, Wales. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons and the various stray animals that have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!
The Playboy’s Mistress
Kim Lawrence
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
DARCY slid her pink feet—the bath had been very hot—into a pair of slippers and padded through the quiet flat to the phone. It was nice to have the flat to herself for once. Jennifer was a great flatmate, but she thought silence was something you filled with noise—preferably the loud, throbbing variety! Music-wise the two were not compatible.
Propping the phone against her ear, Darcy hitched the towel wrapped sarong-style, around her slender body a little tighter and waited for someone to pick up. She was just about to hang up when Jack Alexander answered the phone.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she called cheerfully down the line. ‘Is Mum around?’ She eased her bottom onto the table-top, anticipating a nice long natter.
‘I’m afraid you can’t speak to your mother, Darcy…she…she isn’t here…’
It wasn’t the news that her hyperactive mother wasn’t at home that struck Darcy as strange—her community-minded parent was on more village committees than she had fingers to count them on—it was the peculiar note that bordered on panic in her phlegmatic stepfather’s voice.
Her post-warm-bath, pre-glass-of-wine, mellow holiday mood evaporated. Darcy wasn’t psychic, but she did know Jack, and she had the nasty suspicion that the icy fingers tap-dancing up her spine knew what they were about.
Her heart was thudding as she lightly asked, ‘What is it tonight? Practice for the carol concert or the church roof committee…?’
Jack would tell her what was up in his own good time—he wasn’t the sort of man who could be hurried. An affectionate smile briefly curved her lips as her thoughts rested on the man who had married her mother—Darcy loved him to bits.
Darcy had been five and her elder brother, Nick, seven when Jack entered their lives. After a couple of years Clare had come along and then, much to everyone’s surprise, the unplanned but much loved twins. The Alexanders were a tight-knit family.
‘Neither,’ came back the strangled response.
The line between Darcy’s straight, well-defined, darkish eyebrows deepened; Jack sounded perilously close to tears. This, she reminded herself, is the man who delivered his own grandchild in the back of a Land Rover without breaking sweat. She immediately ditched tactful reticence in favour of the upfront approach.
‘What’s up, Dad?’ she asked bluntly.
‘It’s your mother…’
Anxiety grabbed Darcy’s quivering tummy muscles in an icy fist; eyes wide in alarm, she shot upright from her perch on the console table. All sorts of awful scenarios ran through her head and with some trepidation she put the most alarming of these into words.
‘Is Mum ill…?’
‘No…no, nothing like that; she’s…she’s…’
A noisy sigh of relief expelled, Darcy slid to the floor.
‘She’s gone away.’
‘Away as in…?’
‘She’s spending Christmas in a…a retreat in Cornwall.’
‘But that’s the other end of the country!’ Darcy heard herself exclaim stupidly—as if the where mattered! It was the how and why that were infinitely more important. Her spinning head struggled to make sense of what she was hearing and failed miserably. No matter what else was wrong in her life, there had always been a solid, reliable, constant…Mum… No, this just didn’t make sense—no sense at all!
‘It wouldn’t matter if it was down the road; they don’t even have a phone,’ her stepfather came back in a heavy, doom-laden tone. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do! Everyone’s asking after her. She’s making the costumes for the school Nativity play, the WI want two-hundred mince pies by Thursday… How do you make mince pies, Darcy…?’ he asked pathetically.
‘We’ve got more important things than mince pies to worry about.’ As if he needed reminding of that! ‘Have you any idea at all why has she done this, Dad? Did you have a row or something?’
‘No, nothing like that; she’d been a bit quiet lately…but you’re right; it must be my fault.’
‘Nonsense!’ Darcy meant it. The day she found a man who was half as marvellous as Jack Alexander she was going to stick to him like superglue!
‘Apparently she needs time alone. Are you still there…? Darcy…Darcy…?’
‘Sorry, Dad, I dropped the phone.’ There was a distinctly surreal feel about the entire situation. People like Cathy Alexander didn’t suffer from identity crises, they didn’t walk out on their family with no proper explanation!
‘God, Darcy, what am I going to do…?’ She could hear the escalating panic in her stepfather’s gruff voice. ‘Sam, Beth and the children arrive from the States on Friday. It’s too late to put them off.’
‘No, you mustn’t do that!’ Darcy replied swiftly. Since Jack’s daughter from his first marriage had moved to the States the opportunities for Jack to see her and his only grandchild were few and far between.
‘Nick rang to say to expect him at the end of the week, and no doubt Clare will show up some time.’
Darcy permitted herself a wry smile—it was so like Clare not to commit herself to a date.
‘Your grandmother is likely to drop in on us at any moment. Can you imagine what she’s going to make of this…? At the last count we were doing Christmas dinner for fifteen people that I know of, and the Aga’s gone out and I can’t light it! I never did have the knack with the darned thing like your mother has…’
Darcy could hear him gulp down the line. She took a deep breath; desperate circumstances required drastic solutions.
‘Don’t panic,’ she instructed her harassed stepfather with shameless hypocrisy. ‘If I pack now I should be there about… There shouldn’t be too much traffic at this time of night, should there…?’
‘Your skiing holiday, Darcy!’
Darcy recognised a token protest when she heard it.
‘I know how much you’ve been looking forward to it…’
Darcy allowed herself a final indulgent moment to wistfully visualise crisp snow-covered slopes, twinkling mountain villages and the hunky outdoor type she had been destined to meet amidst the après-ski gluwein before she squared her slight shoulders.
‘With my luck I’d probably have come back with several limbs in plaster.’ You had to be philosophical about these things.
Did her cancellation insurance cover family crises caused by the parent of the policy-holder unexpectedly needing to find herself…? Somehow Darcy didn’t think so.
‘You can’t cancel,’ Jennifer insisted a little later that evening as she sat on Darcy’s bed. Darcy smiled and continued to replace the skiing gear in her suitcase with clothes more suited to Christmas in a remote corner of the Yorkshire Dales. ‘You’ve been looking forward to it all year. I don’t see why it has to be you; why can’t Clare go home to help?’
Darcy laughed. ‘I don’t think domesticity is really Clare’s scene,’ she responded wryly. Her beautiful, talented and slightly spoilt half-sister had a heart of gold, but she needed therapy to recover from a broken fingernail.
‘And it’s yours…?’
Darcy couldn’t deny this. ‘I’ll have to learn, won’t I?’
Jennifer, seeing her friend wasn’t to be dissuaded, sighed. ‘Well, I think you’re being a fool.’
Darcy shrugged. ‘So what’s new?’
Jennifer’s expression darkened. ‘That,’ she said angrily, ‘wasn’t your fault!’
‘Tell that to Michael’s wife and children.’
This year Reece Erskine wasn’t taking any chances. He was going to lose himself in the wilds of deepest, darkest Yorkshire until the so-called festive season was well and truly over!
So he didn’t like Christmas… Why was it considered a crime when a man refused to participate in the manic few weeks that culminated in several days of gluttony in the company of people you avoided for the rest of the year?
Of course, the most insupportable part was the fact that everyone was so understanding. He refused to put on a paper party hat and suddenly he was failing to come to terms with his loss. He’d had it with pop psychology, no matter how well-intentioned!
After the debacle last year, when the girlfriend—and he used the term in the loosest possible sense—of the moment, armed with champagne, sympathy and a criminally sexy nightie, had tracked him down to the hotel he’d holed up in, he wasn’t leaving any clues. She’d proved to be a scarily tenacious woman! She’d had her revenge, though; she’d sold the story of their so-called ‘stormy relationship’ to a tabloid.
Whether he would have been quite so keen to avail himself of Greg’s hospitality if he’d known that the renovations of the big Victorian pile had been at such an early stage was questionable, but that was academic now he was here.
‘God, man, you’re getting soft,’ he told himself in disgust. His deep voice sounded eerily loud in the empty lofty-ceilinged room. ‘What’s a rat or two between friends…? A bit of good old-fashioned frontier spirit is what’s called for here. Who wants to call Room Service when he could pump up the old Primus stove?’ His tone lacked conviction even to his own ears.
Having unrolled his sleeping bag, he made his way into the overgrown garden that stretched down towards what sounded like a river in full spate. He tightened the collar of his leather jacket around his neck; it was almost as cold out here as inside.
From the bone-chilling temperature in the old place even after he’d lit that smoky fire in the cavernous grate, he suspected he’d need to invest in a few thick blankets to supplement his state-of-the-art bedding, which might well live up to its press and be able to withstand a night in the North Pole, but the Yorkshire Dales in December—forget it!
He looked around in distaste at the bleak landscape. God, the place was so grey—grey and extremely wet! It was baffling when you considered how many people waxed lyrical about the area.
The periphery of his vision picked on something that broke the dismal grey monotony. Something suspiciously like a human voice raised in song drifted across from the general direction of that fleeting glimpse of scarlet. Reece immediately felt indignant. Greg had sworn on his very alive grandmother’s grave that Reece wouldn’t see another human being unless he wanted to—and even then it wouldn’t be easy!
Reece had come away with the distinct and very welcome impression that the natives were hostile to strangers.
Eager to defend his solitude against intruders, Reece followed the melody to its source, wrecking his shiny new boots in the process. He discovered the clear, pure sounds actually came from just beyond the boundary of the sprawling grounds. He could no longer eject the songbird, but his curiosity was piqued.
His days as a choirboy enabled him to correctly identify the number as The Coventry Carol. How very seasonal; how very corny, he thought, his lip curling.
Acting on impulse—which wasn’t something he made a habit of—Reece swung himself up onto the lower bare branch of a convenient oak tree. The identity of the owner of the bell-like tones was going to bug him unless he satisfied his curiosity. Besides, if he was going to be carolled on a regular basis it was as well to be forewarned.
From his lofty vantage point he could now see into what must be the garden of the sprawling stone-grey house that sat at the bottom of the lane that led up to Greg’s investment.
In the summer the green-painted summer-house was a magical place, where wisteria tumbled with vigorous old-fashioned roses up the clapboarded walls and over the roof. In Darcy’s childhood it had been the place her knight in shining armour was going to propose. However, the romance was purely a seasonal thing; in the winter it became a cold, unfriendly place her childish imagination had peopled with ghouls and similar nasties—it was still private, though, hence the bit of impromptu choir practice.
Her voice, never in her view solo material at the best of times, was every bit as rusty as she’d expected.
‘I can’t do it!’ she groaned.
That new vicar, she decided darkly, was a dangerous man, who had shamelessly used his spaniel eyes and a judicious amount of moral blackmail until she had almost been falling over herself to volunteer to stand in for her musical mother and perform the solo in the Christmas carol concert.
It wasn’t until she’d been halfway down the lane from the church that the full horror of what she’d done had hit Darcy. She’d suffered from terminal stage fright since that awful occasion in infants’ school when, after she’d been given the linchpin role of the donkey in the nativity play, the strain had proved too much! She’d frozen and had held up proceedings until she had been carried bodily off the makeshift stage.
What’s the worst that could happen…? What’s a bit of public humiliation between friends…?
A loud noise like a pistol shot interrupted her gloomy contemplation of her future as a figure of fun. If she hadn’t automatically taken a startled step backwards the large individual who along with a piece of rotten branch had fallen at her feet would have landed directly on top of her.
As it was, the summer-house didn’t escape so lightly—the jagged end of the branch penetrated the roof, ripping off several tiles, and travelled downwards, gouging a nasty big hole in the side of the structure. But at that moment Darcy’s concerns were reserved for the man lying in a crumpled heap at her feet.
She dropped down on her knees beside him; phrases like ‘recovery position’ and ‘clear airway’ were running through her head. Despite the first aid course she’d completed early that year, she felt completely unprepared to cope with an actual emergency now that one had fallen at her feet.
‘Please, please, don’t be dead,’ she whispered, pressing her fingers to the pulse spot on his neck. To her immense relief, she immediately felt a steady, reassuringly strong beat.
Grunting with effort, Reece rolled onto his back. For only the third time in his life he was literally seeing stars. He ruthlessly gathered his drifting senses, the halo vanished and he realised he wasn’t seeing an angel but a golden-headed schoolboy. Given the clear soprano of his singing voice, the lad had a surprisingly low, pleasing speaking voice.
‘I’ll do my level best,’ the leather-clad figure promised, much to Darcy’s relief.
‘I live just over there.’ The scarf she wore wrapped twice around her neck prevented her turning her head to indicate the overgrown path behind them. ‘I’ll go and get help.’
Darcy froze with shock when a large hand curled firmly around her forearm.
