The Rich Man's Mistress. Cathy Williams
‘What’s this?’
‘This, my dear interior designer, is a house.’
‘Whose house?’
‘Oh, just a little dwelling my boss has in mind to renovate. He knows I like playing on the computer now and again, so he lent me this file to have a look at.’
Miranda looked at him narrowly. ‘Now, why would your boss do something like that?’
Luke’s answer was so swift that she almost wondered whether it had been prepared. ‘We go back a ways. If you move this little gadget here, called a mouse, hey presto, you can zoom all over the place.’
Miranda gritted her teeth and allowed him to have his fun. He would be laughing on the other side of his arrogant, handsome face when she presented him with her ideas, even if the whole lot was erased never to be seen again. The last job she had done of any magnitude had been years previously, but she could feel a stirring of interest in her veins as she glanced at the outlines of a house in front of her.
‘You mean you babysit his cabin every year?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s a long-standing arrangement.’ He hadn’t straightened, so when he spoke his breath brushed against her cheek and into her ear. ‘He must have thought that I might get lonesome, stuck out here as I am, hence this little file for me to play with. Little did he know that I would have unexpected company.’ He stood up and flexed his muscles. ‘You can mess around however you like. Design whatever you want. It can all be deleted. Why don’t you go into the sitting room and relax in front of that roaring fire and show me what you can do with this little toy.’
‘I guess you do get lonely here for weeks, maybe months, on end,’ Miranda said, half to herself, as she settled onto the big sofa, with the computer on her lap. ‘How on earth do you fill your time?’
‘Loneliness is a state of mind,’ he said over his shoulder, as he slung on his waterproof jacket and then pulled on some very thick wool socks and a pair of snow boots that were by the door. ‘And it can only be filled when you’re at peace with yourself.’
‘Well, if you want to spout philosophy, then I’ll just get on with a bit of this interior design, shall I?’ She felt herself smile and when she looked up at him it was to find the smile returned. It gave her the oddest feeling.
‘When I get back from my healthy outdoor fun, you can phone your father. Although…’ he opened the door and swirls of snow blew in ‘…I did call him half an hour ago. On your behalf.’
Miranda looked up, stunned by this piece of effrontery but, before she could demand an explanation, he had left the cabin, slamming the front door behind him.
Her poor dad probably assumed that the man was a genial, middle-aged caretaker with a family tucked away further down the slopes. He would have a fit if he knew what Luke Decroix was like, she fretted. Ten fits, in fact. He would round up the forces and gear up for a rescue mission, not that that would be possible, given the state of the weather. The windows in the cabin were small, but not so small that she couldn’t get a glimpse of the leaden skies, barely visible through the continuing blizzard. Lord alone knew where she was. The skiing resort, her friends, the faithless Freddie and all the bijou little cafés seemed like a dream.
She began experimenting on the computer and the wheels of her rusty memory slowly cranked into life as she played around with ideas. Every so often, she looked up and was treated occasionally to the sight of Luke outside, tramping through the snow with a shovel over his shoulder, making sure that the doorway was kept as clear of snow as possible. He was certainly dedicated to his job, if nothing else.
When he finally came back in, he was carrying a basket of neatly chopped logs slung over his shoulder which he dumped on the ground. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. Then he divested himself of his wet waterproofs and his boots and socks. His black hair was slick from the snow and he went to squat in front of the fire, rubbing his hands together and raking them through his hair.
‘So you haven’t got bored yet with fooling around on the computer?’ he asked, with his back to her. He pulled his thick jumper over his head and stood up, pulling down the shirt underneath. Another tee shirt, this time with some faded design on the front of what was once a bulldog next to a glass of beer. ‘What have you done?’ He sat down next to her, depressing the sofa so much that she had a job not to slide straight into him, thigh against thigh.
‘Not much. Is the snow just as heavy outside?’
‘What do you think of the house? Like it?’
Miranda angled the screen away from him, suddenly shy at exposing her efforts to him. ‘You promised I could use your mobile to call Dad. Which reminds me…’ yes, a good healthy dose of irritation to bring her back on course ‘…whoever said you could call my father? And how did you get his number? And what did you have to say to him, anyway?’
‘Questions, questions, questions. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that when a man returns from some hard labour, the last thing he needs is a whinging woman?’
‘My mother died when I was eight.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry.’ He leaned back on the sofa, hooking one foot around the leg of the table in front and pulling it towards him so that he could rest both his feet on the surface. He had replaced his boots with the same worn, tasselled loafers that had greeted her when she had arrived the previous day. He rubbed his eyes, then folded his arms behind his head and looked at her.
His blue eyes were hypnotic. When she looked into them, she had the strangest sensation of giddiness and a feeling that, if she wasn’t careful, she could easily fall into their fathomless depths and drown.
‘You haven’t answered my questions,’ she reminded him tartly.
‘Oh, so I haven’t. Well, if you really want to know, I have a little method of obtaining the number of the last call on my phone, which I did last night after you had called him in his office. And I thought I might as well touch base, let him know that nothing untoward had happened to his baby during the night. Here, call him yourself now if you like.’ He felt in his pocket and retrieved the palm-sized phone which he handed to her. Except, he didn’t quite hand it over, more dangled it in front of her so that she had to reach for it.
Depressingly, her father seemed to have been reassured by Luke’s phone call.
‘Might do you a spot of good being stuck in the middle of nowhere for a few days,’ he joked, impervious to her horror at any such suggestion. Miranda clamped the phone tighter against her right ear and inclined her body slightly away from Luke’s undisguised interest in what she was saying and what was being said to her.
‘How can you say that, Dad?’ she muttered, but the question was bypassed in her father’s sudden need to get going to a meeting. His driver, apparently, was waiting. He had to dash but he would be in touch, probably later in the evening when he was back home.
‘I hope he’s not too worried about you,’ Luke said piously, reaching out for the mobile and resting it on the table next to his feet. ‘I did try and set his mind at rest. Told him how well you were being looked after. I even said that I had lent you my laptop so that you could amuse yourself on it for a couple of hours.’
‘I’m sure my father doesn’t want lengthy explanations from you on how I’m doing,’ Miranda informed him haughtily.
‘So, what have you managed to do? Anything at all?’
‘You never bothered to tell me what your boss meant by renovating. Does he intend to knock walls down? What specifications is he after?’
‘My, my. I take it you’re wearing your technical interior designer hat now?’
‘If you want to sit there and smirk, then why don’t we just forget this?’ Miranda said. ‘You can have your little toy back to do whatever it is you need to do and I can’t imagine what, and I’ll just content myself with one of those detective