A Mistress, a Scandal, a Ring Read online

  She bit her lip. Her head spun as her brain desperately tried to make sense of what was happening here. What it meant. He’d not said it in so many words, but by providing her with unfettered access to and from the apartment he’d also given her the freedom to walk out and not return—yet he’d made it clear he didn’t want her to leave.

  Why? So they could finish their ‘unfinished business’? Was this about sex? Just sex? And, if so, why was she not scandalised by the idea?

  Because you want him.

  She felt her face flush again. Frustrated, and more than a little confused, she tore her gaze from his and turned back to the window. She didn’t do casual sex. And that was what sex with Xavier would be. How could it be anything else? They lived on different sides of the world. She was just a tourist in his country. And, geography aside, he wasn’t someone she’d ever set her long-term sights on anyway. They’d already clashed over their differing views on love and marriage. Theirs would be a short, steamy affair—nothing more.

  Perfect! That was what Ellie would have said if she was there. Oh, Jordan could just see her friend’s startling blue eyes glittering with glee. Do it, she’d say. Live a little. Life is short and unpredictable.

  As trauma nurses, they both knew just how unpredictable life could be. How quickly and unexpectedly a life could end or change irreversibly. Jordan had lost her dad and her stepmom within four years of each other, and they’d both gone before their time. They’d had twelve wonderful years together, but they should have had longer.

  What would Camila have thought about the attraction between her stepdaughter and Xavier?

  He was her son.

  Jordan imagined Ellie would have a ready answer for that too: So what? He’s not your brother!

  And hadn’t Xavier made that same point with devastating effect yesterday?

  She rubbed her fingers over her forehead. A week ago she hadn’t thought sexual chemistry was really a thing. Now she knew better. But why couldn’t she have made the discovery with a different man?

  Why this man?

  Her temples started to throb.

  Was this powerful, overwhelming attraction a purely physical thing? Was it only Xavier’s sublime good looks and potent masculinity that drew her? Or was it something else? Was a part of her subconsciously looking for a deeper connection with him because he was a living, breathing link to Camila, whom she missed desperately?

  Good grief. Now she was really overthinking things!

  She groaned inwardly.

  Or maybe she groaned aloud, because in her peripheral vision she saw Xavier move, then felt his hands curl gently over her shoulders from behind.

  His touch set her pulse racing, as always, and yet there was something oddly grounding in the warmth and strength of those big, capable hands and the sense of his solid body behind her.

  She felt his breath stir her hair as he spoke.

  ‘I’d like to spend more time with you, Jordan.’

  She swallowed. Was that code for I want us to have sex? She didn’t know. She’d never been in this sort of situation before. Was there an etiquette? If there was, Xavier would know. Didn’t wealthy men change their women as frequently as they changed their suits?

  There was a silence, and then she heard him sigh. His hands tightened a little on her shoulders, and his voice lowered to a deep husk.

  ‘I want you, Jordan. I can’t deny that—not after what just happened on that sofa. We have a powerful chemistry, and I don’t believe you want to walk away from it any more than I do right now.’

  His candour shocked her, and yet his willingness to offer up such blunt honesty spoke to something inside her. Lent her the courage to offer some plain-spoken words of her own.

  She turned, dislodging his hands from her shoulders in the process, and looked up at him. ‘You accused me of running away today, and I suppose I was, in a way. After last night, by the pool...’ She hitched a shoulder. ‘I was embarrassed—and confused. You kissed me, Xavier, and then you rejected me. How was I supposed to feel? I thought I was doing us both a favour by leaving. I didn’t mean to offend you or to seem ungrateful.’

  She took a breath. Even her neck and the tips of her ears burned now, so she knew her blush was scarlet. But she forced herself to continue.

  ‘Last night you said kissing me had been a mistake and now you’re saying you were wrong... So I think maybe...even though you didn’t do it in the nicest way...you were trying to do the right thing last night and be honourable, because you thought doing anything else would be taking advantage of me...’

  Oh, God. Was she making any sense? Or just making a fool of herself?

  She gulped in another lungful of air. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. ‘But now that we’ve...’

  She flapped her hand in the general direction of the sofa, and Xavier lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Been intimate?’

  More precisely she’d been thinking he’d given her the most amazing orgasm of her life. She decided to keep that to herself. ‘Yes, now that we’ve done that...’ And now she really had to screw up her courage, because she’d never had a conversation quite like this in her life, and the enigmatic look on Xavier’s face gave her no clue what he was thinking. ‘You’re right. I don’t think I want to walk away just yet.’

  Because she was pretty sure that what she’d be walking away from was wild, passionate sex the likes of which she’d never experienced before and might never experience again.

  Ellie was right. Life was unpredictable. Short. And too often filled with suffering and pain. She’d seen people lose loved ones and her empathy was strong, because she herself was intimately acquainted with that kind of loss. Her dad had died unexpectedly. And then had come Camila’s illness and eventual passing... Towards the end there’d been days with Camila that had been harrowing and heartbreaking. Even now there were days when she woke and her stomach felt knotted, her chest tight.

  But the woman who had sat on Xavier’s lap a short while ago, who’d loosened her hair and daringly removed her bra—that woman hadn’t felt pain, or grief, or loneliness. She’d felt only pleasure and excitement and the heady, delicious thrill of anticipation.

  For just a few short days Jordan wanted to feel that—and more.

  Boldly, she held his gaze. ‘I want you, too.’

  * * *

  ‘I want you, too.’

  ‘Are you listening, hermano?’

  Xav jerked his head up. ‘What?’

  Ramon eyed him across the meeting table in his office. ‘Where is your head today?’

  Xav sat forward, pushed aside the plate at his elbow and grabbed his pen. He and Ramon had decided on a working lunch in the office rather than in a restaurant, where discussing sensitive matters might be difficult.

  Ramon lounged in a chair on the other side of the table. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, removed his tie and loosened his collar. Xav supposed he should be grateful his brother hadn’t yet removed his shoes and propped his feet on the table.

  ‘First you forget our lunch,’ Ramon needled, ‘and now you seem incapable of concentrating for more than five minutes at a time.’

  Xav scowled. ‘My concentration is fine.’ Liar. ‘What else have you heard about Lloyd Anders?’

  ‘Nothing more than what I told you yesterday. He and Reynaud were spotted having lunch together last week in New York. And then Anders wined and dined Reynaud and his wife on Friday night.’

  ‘At our Manhattan club?’

  ‘Sí.’

  Xav gritted his teeth. He and Lloyd Anders had been business rivals for years, with their respective companies often competing for the same acquisition. He should have known a prize like Reynaud Industries was too tempting for Anders to ignore. But to make his move at the eleventh hour, when Xav was so close to finalising a deal wi
th Reynaud, and then to have the balls to entertain Peter Reynaud and his wife in one of the Vega Corporation’s own clubs...

  Xav put his pen down before he snapped it.

  ‘Frankly, I’m surprised Reynaud would consider Anders as a potential suitor for the business,’ Ramon said. ‘Reynaud is conservative. Old school. He has a paternalistic leadership style. If his son hadn’t gone into medicine and his daughter hadn’t died of leukaemia he’d be passing the company on to his children, not selling.’

  Xav paused in the act of pouring himself another coffee. ‘Leukaemia?’

  ‘Sí. Died in her late teens.’ Ramon pushed his cup across the table for a refill, a frown settling between his brows. ‘Must’ve been devastating.’

  It wasn’t the sort of observation Xav would have expected his brother to make. But, he conceded, Ramon had undergone a remarkable transformation in the past year. From careless playboy to husband and father. Of course he’d have some idea of how traumatic it must be to lose a child. At eighteen he’d got a girl pregnant and she’d miscarried the baby. Now he had a daughter he cherished and, Xav suspected, would protect with his life.

  He set the coffee pot down, recognising the sharp tug in his gut for what it was.

  Envy.

  Growing up, Ramon had been impulsive and reckless while Xav had done everything right. He’d played by the rules, put work before pleasure, strived every day to be the perfect son and make their parents proud.

  He’d thought he would be the first to marry and give their parents grandchildren.

  Not that he begrudged his brother and sister-in-law their happiness. Nor did he resent the existence of baby Katie. She was a beautiful child who carried the de la Vega genes—something his own offspring would not, regrettably, be blessed with.

  The thought gave him pause.

  He had chosen ignorance when it came to his genetic heritage, but what if he had children who one day wanted to know from whom they were descended? Was it his right to deny his offspring that knowledge?

  A chill brushed his neck.

  Could he unwittingly pass on genetic disorders to his children?

  Was leukaemia hereditary?

  ‘Anders hardly represents the kind of traditional values Reynaud holds in high regard,’ Ramon said. ‘The guy’s in his midforties and already has two ex-wives. His last mistress looked as if she was barely out of college.’ Ramon smirked. ‘And didn’t a story surface during his second marriage of a ménage à trois with the maid?’

  Xav shook his head. He had no interest in the sordid details of Anders’s personal life. Xav took pains to avoid the tabloids—both reading them and being in them.

  How did Reynaud view him? He kept his nose clean, but the fact remained he was thirty-five and unmarried. Most people assumed that wealthy bachelors led a lifestyle of indulgence and excess whether they actually did or not.

  He did not.

  And the redhead upstairs...?

  Xav ignored the snide inner voice. Jordan was not an indulgence. She was a sudden distracting itch he needed to scratch so he could move on and re-establish some normality.

  He checked the time on his phone and stood. ‘I have another meeting. Are you staying here this afternoon?’

  Ramon drained his coffee. ‘For a couple more hours. Lucia has set me up in the spare office down the hall. I’ll come in for a few hours each day this week.’

  ‘Fine.’ Xav gathered up his papers. ‘You’re staying at Mamá and Papá’s?’

  ‘Of course. They insisted. Emily’s barely been able to prise Katie from Mamá’s arms.’

  Ramon got up and collected his own things.

  ‘Don’t forget the family lunch on Saturday. Mamá will be upset if you don’t show.’

  Xav cursed under his breath. Five days from now... Would he and Jordan have had their fill of each other by then?

  ‘The apartment’s undergoing some renovation work,’ he said, the lie sliding off his tongue with almost disturbing ease. ‘Stay clear of it.’

  The last thing he needed was Ramon stumbling across Jordan. How would that conversation go?

  Brother—meet my late birth mother’s stepdaughter. Yes, I’m sleeping with her.

  Or at least he would be soon.

  It was a thought that tested his concentration as he sat down with the heads of his commercial and legal teams.

  That meeting went on for an hour. The next one forty-five minutes—thirty of which he spent in his head, replaying the little speech Jordan had delivered upstairs.

  How many people did he know who were as straightforward and honest? Willing to speak their minds even when it discomfited them to do so?

  She’d berated him for his behaviour, interpreted his actions with unsettling accuracy, and then baldly stated that she wanted him—all while blushing like an ingénue.

  He’d never been so turned on listening to a woman talk.

  And he’d never wanted a woman as desperately as he wanted Jordan Walsh.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE’D TOLD HER he’d be back no later than six.

  When he stepped into the elevator it was almost seven. He punched in the security code and felt his heart pound as if he’d taken the stairs instead—all the way from the basement.

  Anticipation, he told himself.

  Yet he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge that his pumping blood also fed a small vein of disquietude.

  When Lucia had put a call through from one of the directors right on six o’clock he’d sent a brief text to Jordan advising her that he’d been waylaid.

  He’d received no response.

  What if, even after her blushing confession about wanting him, she’d changed her mind and fled?

  The very thought sent a vicious twist of reaction through his stomach. He’d want to go after her, but he wouldn’t. He’d barely been able to rationalise his actions the first time. If he chased her down again he’d look like a madman.

  He stepped out of the elevator and scanned the large open-plan living space.

  Her bags were gone.

  His hands curled into fists.

  No. No.

  ‘Jordan?’

  He checked the kitchen, found it empty, and was about to turn and stride out when his gaze caught on a bowl filled with a bright assortment of fruit on one of the black granite surfaces.

  The tension in his muscles eased a bit. The bowl hadn’t been there earlier. How likely was it that Jordan had decided to leave him a parting gift of fruit?

  Quickening his pace, he headed towards the bedrooms, and there, in the smallest of the rooms, were her rucksack and handbag.

  Mildly amused, he grabbed the bags and took them to the master bedroom. Did she think he would let her sleep in a separate room? He wasn’t the kind of man who took his pleasure with a woman and then slept alone. When he took a lover to his bed he expected to find her next to him in the morning, preferably with a smile on her face and a body that was soft and willing.

  He returned to the living room and spotted what he’d missed earlier—the large sliding door to the terrace sitting slightly ajar. He still couldn’t see her, though—not until he went outside and saw she’d dragged one of the loungers into a shaded back corner of the terrace to escape the sun.

  Was she sleeping?

  He approached quietly. She lay on her side, her long legs curled up, her cheek resting on the back of one hand. Her hair flowed loose and he marvelled at the melding shades of red and copper and gold that never failed to fascinate him.

  A paperback lay on the ground, a cardboard bookmark next to it. The haphazard placement of each suggested the book might have slipped from her grasp when she’d nodded off.

  Would she be annoyed when she woke to find she’d lost her place?

  He found his mouth curving as he pictured tha
t little scowl she developed when she was unhappy about something—the one that made her look about as fearsome as a grumpy kitten with its hackles up.

  He’d seen that expression a number of times in the last five days—usually when she was making her dissatisfaction with his behaviour known.

  It occurred to him there was no one in his life who dared to call him out on his arrogance the way she did—except maybe for his mother, who did so only occasionally and was wise enough to know when to give his temper a wide berth.

  He crouched beside the lounger, unable to resist tucking a stray copper curl behind her ear. Her nose was still pink from yesterday, and he was pleased she’d sought the shade to protect her skin.

  She stirred, her soft lips parting, but her eyes stayed closed. She whispered something and he leaned in to catch the words.

  ‘Is she coming back?’

  He realised she was still asleep, or maybe hovering in that place between sleep and wakefulness where dreams and reality sometimes blurred.

  Had she meant Camila?

  His heartbeat slowed as he thought back to that first meeting in his office.

  Six weeks. Wasn’t that how long she’d said it had been since her stepmother had died?

  It wasn’t long.

  A sudden surge of tenderness took the edge off the potent, ever-present desire that hummed inside him like an electric current when he was around her.

  Jordan projected such natural buoyancy and strength it was easy to forget she must still be grieving. Hurting.

  His chest tightened and for a moment he had a strange sense that he shared in her loss. That somehow Camila’s passing had forged a bond between himself and Jordan—a connection that ran deeper than sexual attraction.

  As swiftly as the feeling overtook him, however, he shook it off. How could he grieve for a woman he’d never known?

  He leaned in again and spoke softly. ‘No, querida. She’s gone. But I’m here.’

  He scooped her into his arms and stood, and she murmured some unintelligible words and burrowed her face into his neck.