Hidden Mistress, Public Wife
Gentle fingers stroked the hand resting on his arm. ‘What is it, Ivy?’ he asked caringly.
She shook her head, not wanting to explain.
‘Something upset you,’ he persisted. ‘Was it my comment on integrity? Did you think I was being flippant? I assure you …’
‘No.’ She summoned up a wry little smile. ‘Nothing to do with you, Jordan. I was thinking of my father.’
‘What about him?’ There was concern in the eyes that searched hers.
Ivy was touched by it. Her heart swelled with the sense of caring coming from him. Maybe he simply wanted to dispose of the distraction from him, get it out of the way so he could pull her back to what he wanted, but it tripped her into spilling the truth.
‘Sacha’s last show … when we first met here … It was soon after my father had died. Your mention of nursing homes reminded me of how hard it was for him at the end.’
‘What did he die of, Ivy?’
‘Cancer. Melanoma. He had red hair and fair skin like me and he was always having to get sun cancers removed. It made him fanatical about protecting my skin.’
Jordan nodded. ‘So that’s why you have no freckles.’
The comment made her laugh again. ‘I’m a slave to block-out cream, hats and long sleeves. And you look like a slave to the sun—’ with his gleaming olive skin, ‘—which should make you realise I definitely don’t fit into your scene.’
He grinned. ‘I have no objection to hats, long sleeves and particularly not to block-out cream. In fact, I think it would give me a lot of pleasure to spread it all over your beautiful skin. It would be criminal to have it marred in any way.’
Desire leapt between them—his to touch, hers to be touched. It simmered in his eyes and shot a bolt of heat through her bloodstream. Her pulse started to gallop. Ivy wrenched her gaze from his in sheer panic, riven with an acute awareness of feeling terribly vulnerable to what this man could do to her, for her, with her.
It would probably be a big mistake to let it happen.
She might end up wanting more of him than was sensible or practical, given his track record and her circumstances.
‘What about a painting for yourself?’ she rattled out, waving at the next section of the exhibition.
‘Actually, I’m happy with the selection I have in my house,’ he said, apparently content to follow her lead. For the moment.
Ivy was extremely conscious of him waiting, patient in his pursuit of a more intimate togetherness. It didn’t need to be spoken. His intent was already under her skin, boring away at needs she had been dismissing for years. He’d brought the woman in her alive, kicking and screaming to be used, enjoyed, pleasured.
‘I guess you have a collection of European masters,’ she said lightly, thinking he could well afford it. She remembered Van Gogh’s Irises had been bought by an Australian billionaire.
‘No. I’m a proud Australian. I like my country and our culture. We have some great artists who’ve captured its uniqueness—Drysdale, Sydney Nolan, Pro Hart. I think I’ve bought the best of them.’
Sacha Thornton was not in that echelon of fame, although her work was popular and sold well. Ivy was impressed by the names he’d rolled out, impressed with his patriotism, as well. She’d never liked the snobbery of believing something bought overseas had a cachet that made it better than anything Australian.
‘You’re very lucky to have them to enjoy,’ she remarked as they strolled on.
‘It would be my pleasure to show them to you.’
She shot a teasing grin at him. ‘I’d have to say that’s one up on etchings.’
He grinned back. ‘It’s not a bribe.’
Her eyes merrily mocked him. ‘Just holding out a persuasive titbit.’
‘The choice is yours.’
‘I might think about it,’ she tossed at him airily, turning back to her mother’s art.
He leaned close to her ear and murmured, ‘You could think about it over dinner.’
The waft of his warm breath was like a tingling caress.
Temptation roared through her.
Fortunately two waiters descended on them, one offering a tray of hors d’oeuvres, the other presenting two glasses of fizzing champagne. ‘Veuve Clicquot,’ the drinks waiter informed them. ‘Especially for you, Mr Powell. Compliments of …’
‘Henry, of course. Thank him for me.’ Jordan picked up the two glasses and held one out to Ivy who was busy choosing a crab tartlet and a pikelet loaded with smoked salmon and shallots.
‘Hang on to it while I eat first,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Then you need a proper meal,’ he argued. ‘If you like seafood, I know a place that does superb lobster.’
‘Mmmh …’ Superb lobster, superb works of art, superb Casanova?
The temptations were piling up, making Ivy think she really should throw her cap over the windmill for one mad night with this man.
She finished eating and took the glass of champagne he was holding for her. ‘It’s Friday night,’ she reminded him. ‘Wouldn’t all the restaurants that serve superb meals be fully booked? How are you going to deliver on what you’re promising?’
‘There’s not a maître d’ in Sydney who wouldn’t find a table for me,’ he answered with supreme arrogance.
It niggled Ivy into a biting remark. ‘And not a woman who would refuse you?’
The blue eyes warred with the daggers of distancing pride in hers. ‘Please don’t, Ivy,’ he said with seductive softness. ‘I haven’t met anyone like you before.’
Her heart turned over. She’d never met anyone like him, either. ‘The spice of novelty,’ she muttered, mocking both of them—the strong desire to taste a different experience.
‘Why not pursue it, at least for this evening?’ he pressed persuasively.
She sipped the champagne, felt the fizz go to her head, promoting the urge to be reckless. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ve sold me on the lobster. I will have dinner with you. If you can deliver what you promise,’ she added in deliberate challenge, making the seafood the attraction.
It didn’t dent his grin of confidence. ‘Consider it done,’ he said, whipping out his mobile telephone from a coat pocket.
A treacherous tingle of anticipation invaded Ivy’s entire body. She didn’t wait to hear him make arrangements, moving on to look at the few paintings they hadn’t already seen, pretending it was irrelevant to her whether or not he secured a table for the promised dinner. Undoubtedly he would. Jordan Powell could probably buy his way into anything, any time at all.
But he couldn’t buy her.
She would only go as far as she wanted to go with him.
One evening … maybe one night.
One step at a time, she told herself. He might turn her off him over dinner. The temptation could fizzle out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged her tastebuds with lobster. That, at least, was one pleasure she could allow herself without any concern over what was right or wrong.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY rode away from the gallery in Nonie Powell’s chauffeured Rolls-Royce—borrowed briefly for the trip to the restaurant. Jordan’s mother had rolled her eyes over the request, chided him for deserting her and given a long-suffering sigh as her gaze flicked over Ivy before waving them off, obviously resigned to her playboy son’s weakness for a new attraction.
Ivy didn’t care what his mother thought. Her own mother had been quite happy for her to leave with the billionaire, probably seeing him as the ultimate city man who might very well seduce her from country life. Ivy didn’t care what Sacha thought, either. As far as she was concerned, this was simply an experience she wanted to dabble with while it was desirable.
When it stopped being desirable, she would take a taxi to her car and drive home. In the meantime, she was enjoying the experience of riding in a Rolls-Royce. She’d never done it before and it was most unlikely she would ever do it again. It felt luxurious. It smelled luxurious. She focussed her mind on memorising everything about it to tell Heather because it helped distract her from an acute awareness of the man sitting beside her.
He totally wrecked that mental exercise by reaching across, plucking her hand from her lap and stroking it with his long, elegant and highly sensual fingers. Her pulse bolted into overdrive. She found herself staring at their linked hands, fascinated by the juxtaposition of his olive skin and the extreme fairness of hers. She visualised them in bed together … naked … intertwined … black hair, red hair. The image was wickedly entrancing.
Ben’s skin had been fair, though not as fair as hers. Jordan Powell was very different, in every sense. Was it the sheer contrast that made him so appealing? Why did being with him excite her so much? Was it the idea of living dangerously, which was not her usual style at all?
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
No way was she about to reveal those thoughts! ‘Where are we going?’ she countered, giving him a bright look of anticipation.
‘Wherever you want to go,’ he purred back at her, the sexy blue eyes inviting her to indulge any desire she had on her mind.
‘I meant the restaurant,’ she stated pointedly. ‘My car is parked near the gallery. If I decide to walk out on you, which I might want to do, I’d prefer not to have a long journey back to it.’
He laughed, squeezing her hand as though asserting his possession of her even as he replied, ‘Your escape route won’t be a hardship. The restaurant is at Rose Bay. In fact, we’re almost there.’
‘Good! What’s it called?’
‘Pier. It specialises in seafood—spanner crab, lobster, tuna. I can recommend the trout carpaccio as a starter.’
‘Then I hope you don’t say anything offensive before we dine.’
‘I’ll watch my tongue,’ he assured her, smiling as though he found her absolutely delicious.
Ivy immediately started wondering about how sexy his tongue was, in kissing as well as other intimate things. She had to wrench her gaze away from his mouth before he started guessing what she was thinking.
The idea of new experiences could be terribly beguiling.
It was another new experience to be welcomed so effusively into a classy restaurant, led to a table with a lovely view of Sydney Harbour, and given immediate smiling service. Obviously Jordan Powell was known to be a very generous tipper. Who could blame the average working person for bending over backwards to please him? Besides, he really was charming. To everyone! The maître d’, the wine waiter, the food waiter, to her especially. Being in his company was an undeniable pleasure.
And the seafood was superb.
Especially the lobster, done simply in a lemon butter sauce.
Ivy sighed in satisfaction.
‘Up to your expectations?’ Jordan asked, his eyes twinkling pleasure in her pleasure.
‘Best I’ve ever had,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Thank you.’
He gave her a slow, very sensual smile. ‘I think the best is yet to come.’
Her stomach muscles contracted. Her mind jammed over what to do next—have a one-night fling with him or scoot for home. ‘I couldn’t fit in sweets, Jordan,’ she said. ‘Though coffee would be good.’
A glass of champagne at the gallery and a glass of chardonnay over dinner should not be affecting her judgement, yet she couldn’t seem to manage any clear thinking with his eyes tempting her to stay with him and find out if he would deliver ‘the best’. Maybe the coffee would sober her up enough to make the break, which, of course, was the most sensible thing to do. This whole thing with Jordan Powell was fantasy stuff. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—develop into a real relationship.
He ordered the coffee and handed his credit card to the waiter, indicating they would be leaving soon.
‘I’ll need to call a taxi to get back to my car,’ Ivy quickly said. ‘I can’t walk that far in these killer shoes.’
‘A taxi in twenty minutes,’ Jordan instructed the waiter, apparently unperturbed about going along with her plan.
Twenty minutes later they left the restaurant.
A taxi was waiting for them.
It was only a short drive to where she had parked her car, but every minute of the trip shredded Ivy’s nerves. Jordan had taken possession of her hand again and somehow she couldn’t bring herself to snatch it free. Her heart was pounding. Her whole body felt on edge, fighting against the restrictions her mind was trying to impose on it. The pulse in her temples seemed to be thumping, Go with it. Go with it. Go with it.
The taxi stopped right beside her car.
Jordan released her hand, paid the driver, and was out, reaching back to help her alight on the kerb side of the street. Ivy finally teetered upright in the vertically challengingly high high heels and was fumbling in her handbag for her car keys when the taxi took off, leaving Jordan with her. Alone together. In the shadows of the night.
She scooped in a quick breath, desperate to relieve the tightness in her chest. ‘You should have kept it,’ she said with an agitated wave at the departing taxi.
‘A gentleman always sees a lady safely on her way,’ he replied with mock gravity.
With roses, her mind snapped.
‘I have to change my shoes,’ she muttered, dropping her gaze from his, fighting the physical tug of the man. ‘I can’t drive in these.’
She pressed the Unlock button on her key fob and forced her legs to move, needing to open the trunk and get out her flat-heeled sandals.
‘Let me help you take them off,’ he said.
Those seductively sensual hands on her legs, her ankles, her feet. Ivy’s mind reeled at how vulnerable she might be to his touch. ‘I can manage,’ she rattled out, reaching down to lift the lid of the trunk.
He intercepted the move, taking her hand, turning her towards him. She darted an anguished look of protest at him, caught burning purpose in his eyes, and suddenly her defences caved in, totally undermined by a chaotic craving to know what it would be like at least to be kissed by him.
‘Ivy,’ he murmured, stepping closer, sliding an arm around her waist. He lifted her hand to his shoulder, left it there and stroked her cheek, featherlight fingertips grazing slowly down to trace the line of her lips, his thumb hooking gently under her chin, tilting it up.
She was aware of weird little tremors running down her thighs, aware of her stomach fluttering with excitement, aware of her breasts yearning for contact with the hard wall of his chest, aware of the wanton desire to experience this man running completely out of control. He lowered his head. She stared at his mouth coming closer and closer to hers. She did nothing to stop him. It was as though all her common-sense mechanisms were paralysed.
His lips brushed hers, stirring a host of electric tingles. His tongue swept over them, soothing the acute sensitivity and teasing her mouth open. He began with a soft exploratory kiss, a tasting, not demanding a response but inevitably drawing it with tantalising little manoeuvres. Ivy couldn’t resist tasting him right back, revelling in the sensual escalation that sent heat whooshing through her body.
The urge to feel him was equally irresistible. Her hand slid up around his neck, her fingers thrusting into his hair, loving its lush thickness. Perhaps it signalled her complete acquiescence to what was happening. Ivy was no longer thinking. Her mind was consumed with registering sensation, pleasure, excitement, the rampant desire to have her curiosity about Jordan Powell satisfied blotting out any other consideration.
His thumb glided along her jawline, caressed the lobe of her ear—an exquisite touch, moving slowly, sensually, under her hair to the nape of her neck. The arm around her waist scooped her into full body contact with him as his kissing became more demanding, less of an invitation, more an incitement to passion.
Ivy barely knew what she was doing. She loved being held so close to him, feeling the hard, male strength of his physique—the perfect complement to her highly aroused femininity. Excitement was flooding through her. Her mouth hungered for more and more passion from him, exulting in the deeply intimate aggression of his kisses. Never had she been so caught up in the moment. Never had she been driven to respond so wildly, so uninhibitedly.
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