No Mistress But Love
Table of Contents
Lindy froze suddenly. “What did you say?” she just about managed to croak.
“I’ve just told you that I won you in a poker game last night,” he informed her indifferently, turning and strolling to the door. He paused as he reached it. “By the way, when your husband turns up—tell him he’s fired. I did mention it to him last night, but he was probably too worse for drink to remember…I dare say the fact his wife is now mine to enjoy has also slipped his memory, so perhaps you’d be good enough to remind him of that, too. And by the way—I’ve had your things moved into my suite.”
KATE PROCTOR is part Irish and part Welsh, though she spent most of her childhood in England and several years of her adult life in Central Africa. Now divorced, she lives just outside London with her two cats, Florence and Minnie (presented to her by her two daughters who live fairly close by).
Having given up her career as a teacher on her return to England, Kate now devotes most of her time to writing. Her hobbies include crossword puzzles, bridge and, at the moment, learning Spanish.
THE very first time Lindy Hall had seen Niko Leandros her breathing mechanism had all but seized up on her; and on subsequent meetings, despite decided reservations as to his character, she had found her fingers itching to reach out and ascertain for themselves whether or not that vision of male perfection comprised actual flesh and blood.
‘Where is your husband?’
And that was another thing about him, reflected Lindy, lack of sleep dulling her normally alert mind—his voice: its unmistakably English, and markedly upperclass drawl would unexpectedly soften with the slightest of Greek accents on the odd word, rendering it one of the sexiest voices she had ever heard.
‘Am I to take it you don’t wish to tell me where your husband is?’ enquired Niko, his tall, statuesque form gliding past Lindy’s desk and to the window behind her.
‘I really do wish you’d call me Lindy.’ She sighed involuntarily, and was immediately cursing both herself, for inviting yet another glacial rebuff, and Tim Russell for never being around when he was needed.
And where on earth was Tim? she wondered irritably. He had sloped off early yesterday afternoon and, as far as she knew, hadn’t set foot inside the hotel since—a fact which, coupled with last night’s abnormally oppressive heat, had guaranteed her a virtually sleepless night.
‘Yes, I suppose I should—under the circumstances,’ murmured Niko in that soft, drawling voice of his as he parted the slats of the blind to peer out into the dazzle beyond, where sea and skies merged into a single shimmering blue.
‘I beg your pardon?’ croaked Lindy, scarcely able to believe her ears.
She swivelled round her chair in order to see him, a small frown creasing her brow as her eyes caught sight of the still-livid scar running from within the gleaming black of his hairline right down to the elegant arch of his right eyebrow. Though admitting it brought her a decided pang of guilt, she realised that she found something almost comforting in the sight of that one blemish on the otherwise chiselled perfection of his features—no one had any right to look as good as this man did.
‘Perhaps it is best if I start calling you by your first name,’ he reiterated, his gaze still on the view beyond the window.
Lindy’s eyes rolled heavenwards. What was she supposed to do—get down on her knees and thank him for the favour he was bestowing on her? He might be the most gorgeous-looking man she had ever clapped eyes on, but his downright arrogance more than cancelled that out! From the moment he had arrived he had treated both herself and Tim to a brand of polite disdain that left neither of them in any doubt as to who was the master and who the servants.