Friday Night Mistress Page 7

  “Of course.” She sounded surprised he would even doubt that. “I wouldn’t let you down without calling.”

  He shook his head, confused. “I wasn’t with anyone at the hotel.”

  The arch of one perfectly sculpted brow confirmed her skepticism. “I’d just walked into the lobby when I saw you talking to a man. You were both standing at Reception.”

  Nick started to deny it but her raised hand stopped him. “It was the same man, Nick. I got a great look at him in the coffee bar.”

  “I just picked up the key card…” Nick began, and then a memory kicked his indignation into touch.

  “You were talking to him,” Jordan insisted, “and then you walked to the elevators and he just stayed there, staring at you.”

  Nick remembered an insignificant detail. “Someone asked me the time.” His mind had been so full of Jordan, he’d barely noticed the man who stood at the reception desk while he checked in. He hadn’t given it another thought but in hindsight, it was a strange request considering the hotel wall behind reception had about a dozen clocks, all displaying time zones from around the world. “That was it. I told him the time and walked away.”

  Maybe this was something to be uneasy about after all. “Are you sure it was the same man, Jordan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you should call the police,” he told her. “It’s probably nothing, just a photographer hoping for a story, but just to be on the safe side…” He didn’t want to spook her but she’d described quite a catalog of incidents. Some of it could be imagination, some less likely.

  “The photo in Monday’s paper was the last straw,” she said gravely. “I thought you were playing some sick game.”

  “So you stormed into my office.” No wonder she was rattled, and with her father’s heart attack coming on top…He leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table. “Jordan, do you believe I had nothing to do with any of that?”

  Jordan gazed at him for a long moment. She wouldn’t describe herself as a great judge of character but she could see only concern and sincerity in his face—exactly what she wanted most to see. The past few days, she’d been miserable, hoping against hope there might be an alternative explanation.

  His eyes reassured, soothed, seemed to see deeper into her than anyone had before. She nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. It was just a weird couple of days.”

  The master of ceremonies announced that Strauss’s Wine, Women and Song was the last dance of the evening. Nick stood and extended his hand. She rose, looking around nervously, but when he enfolded her hand in his and gave a reassuring squeeze, her reservations about her father finding out seemed trite. The man had made an enormous boost to the fund-raising coffers tonight. It would be surly to refuse him a dance.

  She wanted to trust him. She’d trusted him with her body for months, and now her fears seemed silly. That aside, he was still the son of her sick father’s oldest enemy. And she was afraid of risking her heart to someone who would tire of her soon enough.

  They joined the other dancers on the floor and as the first notes rang out with military drama, the men bowed low to their partners. There was a lengthy introduction but at least this waltz was one of the shorter selections tonight. Jordan stood stiffly, waiting for the waltz steps to start and Nick moved close and put one big warm hand on her back.

  And then she forgot everything, lost in the music she loved, the million double-quick turns and jaunty steps that he seemed to know as well as she. Jordan was a student of waltz for many years and liked to think she had inherited some of her mother’s grace and ability. Nick moved well, full of confidence and purpose. Like he did everything, she thought wryly. But of course, his mother had been an outstanding dancer and teacher, too.

  The music swirled, lifting her spirits, and she followed his commanding lead in perfect synchronicity, thrilled to find such a capable partner. Nothing beat the rapture of a fast Viennese waltz when two capable participants clicked on the floor.

  Well, almost nothing…Nick rarely took his eyes from hers and she could see he, too, enjoyed the self-imposed discipline of being this close and yet perfectly proper. The teasing brush of his thighs, the masculine pressure of his hand at her lower back, the flat of his palm upon which her fingers rested, it all merged into a dance of restraint. How she knew was a mystery but she sensed how much he wanted to pull her close, mold her body to his. His hand wanted to close around her fingers, his other, to stroke up her back. That he managed to convey all this without a word was testament to their undeniable physical connection.

  She sighed and tore her eyes from his. If the last week had shown her anything, it was that she’d become too vulnerable where he was concerned. It seemed Nick could elicit all sorts of wants and needs that she had no idea she was missing.

  “Whoops, did I miss a step?”

  He’d misinterpreted her sigh. She shook her head. “You dance well,” she told him as the dance concluded and everyone ringed the floor and clapped the orchestra.

  “My mother was determined that Adam and I could hold our own on the dance floor.” He put a hand under her elbow and led her back to the table, his eyes suddenly troubled. “I’m sorry. It can’t have been easy with your mother in a wheelchair.”

  Jordan was touched that he’d remembered, that he cared enough, felt bad enough on his father’s behalf, to mention it. “She supervised. We often watched videos together of her and your mother, the competitions.”

  “They were quite something,” Nick agreed, pulling out her chair. But Jordan remained standing, somehow feeling she had more power that way.

  How charming he could be. How strange that in nearly half a year’s acquaintance, she was only just finding that out now. Not that he’d ever treated her with anything but respect, but what was his game now? What did he want from her?

  The more she saw of this new Nick, the more she was being drawn in, but it couldn’t be. Not now, not ever. He would find her out, find her wanting if he dug beneath the surface. And by then, she would be hopelessly in love.

  And her father was ill, seriously ill. She couldn’t add to that. She raised her chin. “Thank you, Nick.” Picking up the pen, she held it out to him.

  Nick glanced at it and then back to her face. “Am I being dismissed?”

  “I have things to see to.” She had to be strong, had to resist him.

  He took the pen but made no attempt to use it. “You do believe that I had nothing to do with any of that last week?”

  She held his gaze. “Yes. I believe you.” Silently, she implored him to sign the paper. Leave while she still had a hope of saying no.

  Nick’s eyes bored into her, glinting with comprehension and disappointment. “This isn’t over, Jordan. I want more.”

  Maintaining eye contact and a casual tone when every cell in her body clamored to know how much more wasn’t easy. “It was fun, but it’s over.”

  He didn’t move one facial muscle but his flinty expression warned her it wasn’t over, not yet. “That’s it? One dance for three million dollars?”

  It was like a slap with a cold fish. Charming when things were going his way, but ultimately, out for what he could get. She summoned an icy look of her own. “Why, no. You get this lovely property in a beautiful part of the country. It’s an excellent investment.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted but his eyes were cool. “There is a condition of sale. I want you to show me the property.”

  Her eyes widened. “An auction is unconditional…”

  “You want it sold or not?”

  Damn, damn, she’d made a huge tactical error, shot her bullets too soon. “Nick, you can’t go back on your word. This is for charity.”

  He scowled. “Are you willing to risk a bird in the hand?” He turned his head, gesturing at the queue of people lining up for their coats, the catering staff clearing empty tables, the orchestra packing up. “The evening is over. I’m your only buyer—potential buyer.”

  Her hear
t sank. How could she refuse with three million dollars at stake? How could she ever explain the collapse of the deal to Russ? They were counting on this money. “Why are you doing this?”

  He picked up the contract and folded it. “I’m waiting.”

  He had manipulated her with cold, calculating finesse. That was bad enough but how would she handle going off into the middle of nowhere alone with him?

  Was it him or herself she didn’t trust?

  She had no choice. “If you think we’re just going to pick up where we left off…” she muttered furiously. “Your three million bought this—” her fingers flicked the folded contract in his hand “—not me!”

  He raised his hands. “That’s your choice. Nothing will happen that you don’t want.”

  That was cold comfort. They both knew she was incapable of resisting him once he started touching her.

  “Be at Aotea Marina at eight a.m. on Saturday.”

  Great. She’d have to spend the three-hour ferry trip pretending she didn’t know him—not that she would be talking to him. “The ferries don’t leave from Aotea Marina,” she said testily.

  “Aotea Marina. Eight a.m sharp,” Nick said firmly and tucked the contract into his jacket pocket.

  Eight

  “S omething wrong?” Nick asked from the wheel of the Liberte 1V luxury cruiser.

  Jordan closed her cell phone, frowning. They were an hour out from Wellington and her phone had just died in the middle of a text. She normally got reception most of the way across the Strait on the big public ferries.

  She looked up into his questioning gaze. “One of the girls in our Outreach program has gone missing. Russ wants us to keep an eye out for her.”

  Letitia was fourteen. She came from a large family who’d hit hard times. They were loving and kind people who qualified for the support the church and the Elpis Foundation offered—and they gave much.

  But two nights ago after a fight with her parents over a cell phone—Letitia wanted one and they couldn’t afford it—she’d left home and hadn’t been heard from since.

  Nick grunted. “Probably just hanging with her friends.”

  Jordan hoped so. In fact she could remember running away to friends to cool off herself at fourteen. But there was little comparison between the places she’d hung out and the options open to a young girl alone on the streets of Wellington.

  “She came out here a couple of weeks ago. We had a Working Bee.”

  “At the lodge?”

  Jordan broke off a little of the fluffy croissant on the plate in front of her. Nick had promised her a decent lunch on the floating palace, but for now, she was making do with coffee and still-warm croissants. “We’ve had a couple. Mostly picking up rubbish around the place and pulling up old carpet. Letitia had a ball and hasn’t stopped talking about it, according to her parents.”

  “And Russ thinks she might have come back?”

  Jordan sipped her coffee. “I don’t see how. She has no money for the ferry, or the water taxi from Picton.”

  Talk of the Working Bee reminded her…“Do you mind if I bring back some stuff that we left last time? Some tools and food we were keeping for the next Working Bee. I’ll bring it back today and get it out of your way.”

  He nodded briefly, but if he’d noticed the reference to coming back today, he didn’t say anything.

  Jordan had arrived at Aotea Square as instructed at eight sharp. Nick helped her aboard and then immersed himself in skippering the cruiser out of the harbor and into Cook Strait, that turbulent stretch of water linking the North and South Islands of New Zealand. He estimated the trip to their destination to be under four hours, plenty of time to make it back today.

  And that was the only option, as far as Jordan was concerned. She was still miffed at his strong-arm tactics to get her here but she would play along—for now.

  “Why were you holding Working Bees there when you intended to auction it off?”

  “I hadn’t intended to sell it at that stage. I’d planned to develop a retreat for families who never seem to have enough money to take a holiday.” She felt her cheeks color. The idea seemed to have merit at the time she’d purchased the lodge, but in the cold light of day…“It was a pipe dream.” She lifted her shoulders carelessly.

  “Why?”

  Jordan glanced at him. Nick looked like he was born on a boat. He wore tan chinos, moccasins without socks and a casual white shirt that he’d left untucked. A world removed from his suits and crisp business shirts. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, spinning it with dark gold tips. With the backdrop of the sparkling sea, his hands strong and capable on the wheel, he was master of his destiny.

  And she’d do well to stop admiring his physical attributes and remember that she was here under duress. “I hadn’t thought it through. Needy people don’t want a holiday, they want tangible support, support they can see in their wallets and on their table. I meant well, but…” Jordan had no idea, really. How could she with her upbringing?

  Nick frowned. “Doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to me. Is it only the well-heeled who deserve holidays?”

  “No, of course not.” She lapsed into silence, feeling foolish.

  “Why did you change your mind?”

  “The big boy toys were a bit light.”

  He raised his brows.

  “The auction,” she qualified. “We expected a few more high-value items to put up for the charity auction. When they didn’t eventuate, I thought the property might provide a draw card and fetch a good price for the coffers.”

  “Did you get what you hoped for?”

  More time with you? The thought popped into her brain with the speed of light. That was how it had turned out but Jordan knew that wasn’t what she needed. She merely nodded.

  “Why all the secrecy, Jordan? Most women in your position can’t wait to let the world know about the good works they do.”

  She knew that, but she’d also had a lifetime of people looking down on her because she was rich. “It’s better that way. No one takes me seriously but this—the Foundation—is a serious business. The minute people realize that I’m involved, a lot of the support would dry up.” She looked at him candidly. “For example, did you see an amusing headline about me three weeks ago? The Penny-Pinching Million-Hair-ess!”

  Nick nodded. “Something to do with buying up shampoo on special.”

  “A woman took a picture of me with half a dozen bottles of cut-price hair products in the supermarket. Neither she nor the rag she gave the photo to bothered to find out that I’d bought them for one of Russ’s jumble sales. I often do things like that, but maybe I should cover myself in sackcloth and ashes.”

  “That would be a crime,” he quipped, but there was genuine sympathy in his face.

  She turned away from it. “I brought it on myself, the way I behaved—used to. People don’t want to see me as anything other than a rich bitch.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Nick commented. “It’s a lot more than most people are doing.”

  He was right, she supposed. Pity it had taken her so long to get a conscience.

  “Tell me about Elpis. It means hope, doesn’t it? Something to do with Pandora’s box?”

  “Technically, it was a jar,” Jordan murmured, surprised at his interest. “A curse given by Zeus to punish mankind. It was entrusted to Pandora and when she opened it, all the good spirits were lost to mankind, except for hope.” She shrugged self-consciously. “Something like that, anyway.” Russ’s interest in Greek mythology had inspired the name.

  “And you set up the Foundation, financed the lot?”

  Jordan nodded. There were no prizes for guessing what was going through his mind, that it was Thorne commercial real estate her trust fund was built on. Paid for by his father, so ultimately him. “Yes, it was from the trust fund that came from your father’s land. But I think you know that.”

  “Do you think I’m after reclaiming that money, Jordan?”
His tone was casual, his long considering look anything but.

  She searched his face for hidden meaning, liking his directness. “No.”

  “Do you feel guilty about it? Is that why you give it away?”

  That had occurred to her before. She had plenty of money apart from this particular trust fund. What had spurred her into suddenly developing a philanthropic streak a year ago, when this fund matured? “Do you think I’m guilty?”

  It took a while but when it came, his smile was warm and melted her insides. “Guilty of being too good and too hard on yourself, maybe.”

  Too good? She wondered if anyone, especially her father, would see it that way if her torrid affair with Nick Thorne was discovered. “I’m no angel. I just have too much time on my hands.”

  “Did you never have any plans or ambitions of your own?” he asked.

  Jordan liked art, which played right into her indulgent father’s hands. A hobby rather than a career choice. “Daddy didn’t exactly imbue me with a good work ethic.” The sad thing was that Jordan had let him get away with that for so long. Taking his handouts, indulging in every pleasure, pleasing herself.

  “Surely he could have set you up in one of his businesses somewhere.”

  She laughed out loud. “He doesn’t believe in women working. How he gets away without sexual discrimination charges for the lack of female employees—especially in the corporate sector—is beyond me.” She glanced at him sideways. “And you are the very last person I should have shared that with.”

  Nick gave her another of his long, assessing looks. “I’m on your side, Jordan.”

  Her heart sank because something in her knew he spoke the truth. Suddenly his words at the ball the other night—I want more—took on ominous meaning. This wasn’t just about sex or resuming their previous relationship. Somehow, for whatever reason, Nick Thorne wanted something more from her. And that was going to cause her heart all sorts of problems.