The Mistress Deception

‘About what?’ Relaxed yet alert, Rachel thought everything was going swimmingly. A string quartet played exquisitely civilised Baroque on the terrace, the champagne was flowing, the caviare circulating, the conversation buzzing, and there had not been a hint of a problem with gatecrashers, light-fingered guests or suspiciously wandering staff.

Merrilyn’s fingernails bit into her bare arm as she tugged her out of the way of a passing white-jacketed waiter. A slim redhead in an arresting green taffeta dress, she vibrated with nervous anxiety. ‘He’s going to ruin everything, I just know it!’ she whispered frantically. ‘I’ve spent months planning this! My first big formal dinner party and it’s going to end up a total disaster!’

Rachel had been Merrilyn’s fitness trainer for a year, and she was well acquainted with the young woman’s propensity for worrying over trifles. The exclamation mark might have been invented with Merrilyn in mind.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she murmured soothingly, transferring her dangerously tilted champagne glass to her free hand. ‘Everyone’s having a great time.’

‘I’m talking about him!’

Rachel followed her agonised gaze to the archway between the huge lounge and the sunken dining room, expecting to see some ill-bred, loutish interloper dipping his fingers into the caviare bowl.

‘Matthew Riordan?’ she said incredulously.

‘Oh, God, just look at him…’ Merrilyn moaned.

Rachel looked, ignoring the shivery frisson that lifted the fine hair on the back of her bare neck. She always instinctively bristled when she saw Matthew Riordan, and had learned not to take any notice of the uncomfortable sensation, which was normally a harbinger of trouble.

Viewed from the side, in formal black he looked leaner than usual, but otherwise impeccable, his knife-sharp profile tilted down as he poured champagne into the glass of a young society matron from a bottle which he had produced from under his arm. Whatever he was saying made her blush, and her middle-aged husband stiffen at her side.

‘You see!’ hissed Merrilyn, her nails stabbing at the nerve in Rachel’s elbow. ‘He’s at it again.’

‘At what?’ asked Rachel reluctantly, easing her arm out of her clutches. She had done a sterling job of avoiding Matthew Riordan so far tonight, and would prefer to keep it that way.

‘Saying wickedly provocative things to people.’ She sounded on the verge of tears.

‘Matthew Riordan?’ Rachel said again, just to check that they were indeed discussing the same person. The man who was renowned for his cool reserve and deadly civility?

‘Yes, Matthew Riordan,’ moaned Merrilyn, her hand fluttering up to pluck at her diamond choker. ‘Oh, God, John will never forgive me if he starts a fight—’

‘Matthew Riordan?’ gaped Rachel, beginning to feel like a maniacal parrot. ‘For goodness’ sake, Merrilyn, take a deep breath and calm down,’ she said astringently. ‘He’s a merchant banker, not a lager lout. I’ve met the guy—he’s intelligent and articulate, but abnormally controlled; I bet he knows exactly how far he can go.

‘He would no more get into a stupid fight than he would pick up the wrong fork at dinner. He’s certainly not going to insult his hostess or make a fool of himself by creating a scene. And none of your other guests are going to risk offending someone so influential—certainly not to his face.’

‘You haven’t heard the shocking things he’s been saying!’ Merrilyn despaired.

‘Come on, Merrilyn. Give the guy a break.’ Rachel couldn’t believe that she was actually defending the man who was directly responsible for Weston Security Services losing two lucrative corporate contracts within the past month, but the important thing right now was to curb her client’s hysteria. ‘Everyone lets their hair down a bit at parties. Don’t you want him to enjoy himself?’

‘But he’s not enjoying himself; that’s the whole point!’ Merrilyn’s exquisitely made-up face was a mask of tragedy. ‘He’s drunk!’

Rachel almost laughed at the ludicrousness of the idea. ‘I doubt it. He hasn’t been here long enough to have had more than a couple of glasses of champagne—’

‘No. You don’t understand!’ Merrilyn moaned. ‘He was drunk when he arrived. And to think I was panicking because he hadn’t turned up. Now I almost wish he hadn’t…!’

The disgusted admission was tantamount to heresy from a dedicated social climber like Merrilyn, and Rachel registered a surge of alarm.

She reappraised him. ‘He looks quite steady on his feet to me.’

‘Trust me, he disguises it well, but he’s on the brink of being bombed out of his skull,’ said Merrilyn grimly. Once, on the massage table after one of their sessions in the gym, she had confided to Rachel that her brother was an alcoholic. ‘And another thing—he’s turned up solo! He was supposed be coming with Cheryl-Ann Harding. I’ve spent a fortune on the table settings—if his girlfriend’s not here it’s going to wreck the symmetry!’

‘His girlfriend?’ Rachel was startled. ‘I thought he was married?’ She had noticed the plain gold band he wore on his left hand.

‘He was…Oh, hell, what’s he going to do now?’ Merrilyn was distracted by the sight of the ruffled young matron being hustled away by her stiff-jawed escort. ‘If Cheryl-Ann isn’t here he’s going to be roaming around like a loose cannon all night,’ she muttered. ‘They’ve been going out for yonks—it’s common knowledge that Matthew’s father is putting on the pressure for him to get married again, and everyone agrees they’d make a perfect couple. If they’ve had an argument, why on earth couldn’t they have saved it until after my party?’

She planted a hand in the small of Rachel’s back, propelling her forward. ‘Quick! Let’s get over there while he’s still by himself and see if you can keep him diverted long enough to sober him up for dinner.’

Rachel almost stumbled over her white slingbacks. ‘Me?’

‘Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To mix and mingle and stop minor problems escalating into major embarrassments?’ declared Merrilyn. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you being here, Rachel. I’m so glad you persuaded me to go with Westons rather than some other firm. You’re right, it’s so much better having someone I know handling potentially sensitive matters like these. I’ll be sure and tell all my friends what a classy personal protection service you run!’

Sensing she was overdoing the gushing flattery, she altered her tone to a panicky plea. ‘Look, just stick to him like glue and do what you can to cover for him, OK? And be discreet! The fewer people who realise what’s going on, the better.’

‘Why don’t you just politely ask him to leave?’ murmured Rachel as they approached their target.

‘Throw him out?’ Are you mad?’ Merrilyn’s whisper was scandalised. ‘He’s one of my most important guests. It would be social suicide!’

She raised her voice on a fluttering laugh. ‘Matthew! Look who I’ve brought to see you! I know I don’t have to introduce you two—Rachel was just telling me she thinks you’re the most intelligent and articulate man she’s ever met!’

He had been topping up his own glass, and now he tucked the champagne bottle under the potted plant at his elbow with a casual disregard for his surroundings which made Rachel blink.

‘Really? How delightfully flattering of her.’

He held out his hand, and although Rachel mistrusted his honeyed drawl, allied as it was with a mocking disbelief in the dark brown eyes, she automatically reciprocated. But instead of the cool, impersonal shake he had delivered when they had been first introduced to each other in his office, he raised her hand to his mouth and placed a string of tiny kisses across her long fingers, letting her feel the faint sting of his teeth.

‘I shall endeavour to return the favour.’ Bowed over her hand, his eyes were licensed to rove, and made the most of their freedom. ‘Your breasts are truly in magnificent form this evening, Miss Blair,’ he purred. ‘What a pity they’re so much more impressive than your IQ—but I suppose a woman can’t have everything.’

Hearing Merrilyn’s choked whimper of horror, Rachel gulped down her shock and pinned on a blinding smile. ‘Can’t she? What a woefully limited little world you must inhabit, Mr Riordan.’

His eyes flickered, the only indication that she had pinked him with her quick riposte.

‘But I’m forgetting. One should never trust to appearances, particularly where women are concerned,’ he continued smoothly, his gaze openly caressing the bounteous curves which plumped above the beaded edge of the gown. ‘Perhaps it’s your dressmaker or plastic surgeon who should be accepting my compliments…’

‘With compliments like yours, who needs insults?’ murmured Rachel, resisting the urge to hitch up her fitted bodice.

Merrilyn had shrieked with outrage when she had seen the subdued, off-the-rack black dress which Rachel had originally planned to wear.

‘You can’t wear that—it’s not glamorous enough! You’ll stand out like a sore thumb, which is exactly what we want to avoid. Give me your measurements and I’ll arrange for my dressmaker to send over something more suitable.’

It had been Rachel’s turn to be horrified when she had gone up to the bedroom where she was to change and found the strapless, figure-hugging sequinned dress hanging on the closet door. Unfortunately it fitted like the proverbial glove, giving her no excuse to demur.

‘Oh, I do apologise…am I being insulting?’ Matthew Riordan oozed with silky insincerity, making her stiffen as he twisted her wrist to rest his lips against her pulse-point.

By now Rachel could perfectly understand Merrilyn’s panic. His diction was nearly perfect, but his words were stunningly uninhibited and his spectacles could not hide the hot, restless look in the hooded brown eyes. Apart from a streak of colour on his high cheekbones his face was noticeably pale in contrast to his sleeked-back hair and the dark stubble that graced his chin. His sultry air of controlled recklessness bore little resemblance to the grimly reserved chairman of Ayr Holdings whom Rachel had encountered when she had accompanied Frank to re-pitch for a couple of corporate contracts.

The companies, for whom they had run fraud prevention training programmes and provided security patrols, pre-employment vetting and confidential investigations in litigation support, had been involved in a series of mergers orchestrated by the majority shareholder—Ayr Holdings—and, having attained a controlling interest on several new boards, Matthew Riordan had been seeking to centralise their security arrangements.

At the meetings, although it had been made clear from the outset that Rachel was attending as co-owner of Weston Security Services, Matthew Riordan had virtually ignored her, addressing all his queries and remarks to Frank. When Rachel had taken it upon herself to answer or make an informed comment, he had given her minimal responses in a tone of clipped courtesy that had barely concealed his impatience with her interruption. Frank had claimed she was being over-sensitive, but Rachel had come away from their ultimately unsuccessful series of meetings steaming with frustration at being treated more like a glorified secretary than an equal partner.

‘No, just unbelievably crass,’ she replied, striving for just the right note of crushing boredom. She could feel his lips move against her skin as he smiled, the blood thumping through her artery his proof that she wasn’t as calm as she looked. She tried to slip her hand free, but to her surprise she discovered his grasp was unexpectedly strong. A brief, almost invisible power struggle ensued, and Rachel finally resorted to the feminine trick of curling her angry fingers over the edge of his palm and digging her fake nails into the sinewy back of his hand. He didn’t even flinch.

‘What else did you expect?’ he taunted. ‘A woman like you wearing a dress like that…you’re obviously not aiming to appeal to a man’s intellect…’

Even though she knew full well she was being deliberately provoked Rachel couldn’t help snapping at the bait. ‘A woman like me?’

She had narrowed his hostility to a specific focus, and now she was paying the price. His smile was insolent in the extreme. ‘Big, bold and brassy.’

The thin gold rim around her hazel irises glowed incandescently bright as she spluttered, ‘Brassy—?’

‘It means flashy, strident, showy…’ he elaborated, his eyes sliding from her breasts, heaving in outrage, to the tightness of her dress across her round hips and the slit in the side of the clinging skirt which revealed her leg to mid-thigh. ‘I knew the first time you walked into my office what you really were—window-dressing…a showgirl trying to do a man’s job…’

Rachel dug her fingernails deeper into his flesh and he gave an exaggerated wince.

‘Uh, Rachel…’ Merrilyn’s voice fluttered anxiously to her ears and Rachel suddenly remembered the role she was supposed to be playing. She should be pacifying him, not prodding him into even worse behaviour.

She batted her eyelashes and adopted a girlishly meek tone. ‘May I please have my hand back now, Mr Riordan?’

‘It depends what you’re planning to do with it,’ he challenged, and she couldn’t stop her eyes flickering to his temptingly exposed cheek. Unexpectedly he laughed, a purring sound that ruffled the nerves along her spine, and kissed her fingers again, releasing her hand with a slow, stroking motion that made it clear that it was purely his own choice.

‘A toast,’ he said, lifting his champagne glass and leaning forward to brush it against hers. ‘To the unfair sex, who resort to seduction when all else fails.’

‘If it was a man you would call it clever use of available resources,’ Rachel responded tartly. ‘And if you imagine this is a seduction you have some very odd opinions. You don’t like women very much, do you, Mr Riordan?’

His eyes glittered darkly. ‘I like certain women very much.’

‘Let me guess…small, fluffy-headed, delicately built females who constantly defer to your superior intellect and would never dream of challenging your masculine superiority?’

His face tautened. ‘What a sharp-tongued bitch you are!’

Her mouth curved smugly. She had obviously guessed right. She had probably just described Cheryl-Ann Harding to a T. She tossed back her champagne, forgetting that she had simply been holding it as a prop. ‘Not your type, Mr Riordan?’

He looked her over, blatantly undressing her with his hot black eyes. ‘I don’t know—bedding you could have its…compensations,’ he drawled insolently. ‘As long as you kept your mouth shut. Except to scream at the appropriate moment, of course.’

‘You mean the moment of my supreme disappointment?’ she said sweetly, and had the pleasure of seeing his ears turn red. She could almost envisage the steam issuing forth. ‘It must get very noisy in your bedroom, Mr Riordan.’

Merrilyn uttered a choked groan, overridden by Matthew Riordan’s sneer. ‘There’s only one way for you to find out, isn’t there?’

‘Why, is this a proposal, sir?’ Rachel simpered.

‘Miss Blair, the last thing you’d ever get from me would be a marriage proposal,’ he snarled.

‘Good. Because being married to a chauvinist like you would make me feel suicidal!’

His face went stony-blank, his voice as vaporous as dry ice, and just as freezing as it bled from his pale lips. ‘You wouldn’t get the chance. I’d have murdered you beforehand. In fact, I’d be hard put to control my homicidal impulses until after the wedding!’

With that he yanked up the champagne bottle from under the plant and stalked off.

‘Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…’ Merrilyn was chanting the horrified mantra under her breath, her face as white as milk under the professional coating of make-up.

‘He insulted me first!’ said Rachel shakily, knowing that it was no excuse. She had been thoroughly unprofessional. How many times had she heard David say that to successfully subdue a volatile opponent you had to remain emotionally detached from the situation?

‘You don’t understand…his first wife, Leigh, did commit suicide,’ said Merrilyn. ‘They’d only been married a few years…’

‘Oh, no…’ Rachel breathed. She closed her eyes, her own spiteful words ringing in her ears, lacerating her conscience.

‘You’ve seen the kind of mood he was in, now he’s going to be even worse,’ Merrilyn fretted. ‘I told you this was going to end up a disaster.’

‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ said Rachel, with far more confidence than she felt. ‘I’ll go and find him again—you just concentrate on looking after your other guests.’

‘But we’re sitting down to dinner soon! How can I concentrate on anything else? It’ll be like having an unexploded bomb at the table!’

‘Change the seating. I’m in a suitably obscure corner—put Matthew Riordan next to me.’

‘After what just happened—are you kidding? That would really light his fuse!’

‘There won’t be any fireworks,’ vowed Rachel grimly. ‘If he won’t co-operate I’ll think of something else, but I won’t let him create a disruption.’

To Rachel’s relief Merrilyn appeared to accept her assurances although she still looked dubious as she hurried off to resume her hostessing duties.

Rachel didn’t need a bloodhound to track down her quarry; all she had to do was follow the trail of nervous smiles and negative energy which Matthew Riordan had left scattered in his wake.

She found him outside, wandering down the terrace steps, having bypassed the glass dangling from his fingers in preference to swigging champagne straight from the bottle. The evening was so warm and humid that stepping from the air-conditioned comfort of the house into the velvety night was like being enveloped by a smothering blanket. The mingled scent of the jasmine which cloaked the walls of the large courtyard below the terrace and the Mexican orange blossom shrubs set in tubs around the kidney-shaped swimming pool was heavy in the air.

Approaching his brooding back as he prowled restlessly along the edge of the salt-water pool, Rachel decided that the grovelling approach would probably only invite his further contempt.

‘Looking for a small dog or a child to kick?’ she asked, and when he swung around to face her she didn’t give him a chance to open his mouth.

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that?’ She nodded at the champagne bottle.

His mouth twisted, the lenses of his glasses reflecting the dancing light from the flaming torches decorating the fluted columns in the courtyard.

‘What are you? My conscience?’

‘Since you apparently don’t have one of your own, I felt constrained to volunteer,’ she said acerbically.

‘Like to live dangerously, do you?’ He prowled back towards her, his voice thick with menace, but Rachel stood her ground. Let him know that she was far more than merely the sum of her curvaceous parts!

‘Merrilyn’s afraid that you’re going to get totally smashed and run amok, insulting all her guests and ruining her chances of making it onto the social register.’

Her shrewdly judged frankness arrested the flaring animosity in his face. ‘So she asked you to stop me?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Something like that.’

He took a long swallow of champagne and slowly licked his lips, taking one final step that brought him close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. ‘You and whose army?’

Rachel jerked her eyes away from his mouth. It was a highly inconvenient time to notice that his lips were sensuously full, casting a sexy shadow over the intriguing indentation in his chin. ‘I thought I’d start off by appealing to your better nature.’

‘You’re so sure I have one? It didn’t sound as if you thought so back in there…’ He jerked his head towards the partying buzz, tilting himself momentarily off balance before quickly adjusting his stance. A tiny slip but a betraying one.

‘Back in there I was operating under a slight misapprehension,’ she murmured.

He cocked his head. ‘Oh, and what was that?’

‘Merrilyn told me you were drunk, but I didn’t believe her. I apologise for my stupid mistake.’

He gave a crack of reluctant laughter. ‘You’re taking a hell of a chance, aren’t you?’

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘If you’re going to take it out on anyone, take it out on me. Merrilyn issued her invitation in good faith. She wasn’t to know that you’d have a tiff with your girlfriend and try and drown your sorrows.’

He paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. ‘Is that what she thinks happened?’

‘Well, Cheryl-Ann’s not here, and you are—distinctly the worse for wear, so…’

She watched him up-end the bottle again, her fingers itching to snatch it away from his lips. But she knew from their earlier encounter that he was a lot stronger than he looked, and stubborn as the devil. Cunning rather than brute force was the best way to handle him.

‘Actually it was vice versa,’ he said, catching her frustrated look and defiantly refilling his glass, toasting her with an exaggerated flourish before knocking it back.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It was because I’d been drinking that Cheryl-Ann refused to come along with me tonight…’

‘Oh…’ Rachel was disconcerted by his sudden revelation. Merrilyn had acted as if his behaviour was totally unprecedented, but perhaps he was a closet alcoholic.

‘Cheryl-Ann likes everything in life to be pleasant and predictable. Particularly her men.’

‘Are there so many of them?’ she asked curiously. ‘I thought you two were a big item.’

‘And I thought you didn’t believe everything Merrilyn tells you. More champagne?’ he said, and splashed some into her glass from the carelessly offered bottle. Most of it slopped over the edge and onto her fingers.

‘Sorry,’ he said as she sucked in a gasp at the sudden chill. ‘Would you like me to lick it off for you? No free hands.’ He extended his arms wide in explanation, his unbuttoned jacket splitting wide over his snowy pleated shirt-front, now lightly frosted with bubbles.

‘No, thank you,’ she said primly, pushing away the unsettling thought of his tongue stroking across her skin. ‘But if you’ll hand me the bottle I’ll pour myself some more—I don’t trust your aim.’

He laughed again, and tucked the bottle under his arm. ‘I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.’

She shrugged. ‘It was worth a try. You could be a bit more co-operative.’

‘Why should I?’ His mouth turned down, making him look wilful and determined to be difficult. She was reminded that while he seemed preternaturally mature, and commanded a lot of power in his position, exuding an air of intimidating and apparently effortless authority, he was still four years her junior. She should be able to handle him with one hand tied behind her back!

‘Well, surely you don’t want people to think that you’re a lush?’ she wheedled.

‘I’m rich enough not to have to care what people think,’ he said, with breathtaking arrogance and unfortunate accuracy. ‘But, as it happens, I have none of the usual vices.’

‘Just the unusual ones?’ hazarded Rachel unwisely.

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