Mistress: At What Price? by Anne Oliver Page A

would need extensive renovations if she intended to use it for retail purposes. For now she concentrated on arranging the meagre furniture Dane had supplied, sorting throughstock she’d brought with her from Paris and setting up her sketching easel. Since it was Sunday, she opened her laptop and made a list of potential suppliers and tailors to contact in the coming week.
    Mid-afternoon, unable to concentrate, she gave up trying to work on her latest design and headed home again. She wanted to talk Dane into some photos of her work for advertising and display purposes. And it was time he was fully informed about her work.
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    She found him in the pool. He was stretched out on an inflatable raft, wearing brief black bathers and apparently asleep behind those sunglasses, because the only movement coming from the pool was the gentle lilt of the raft in the light swirl of air.
    And, oh, my… She might have seen him naked last night, but it had been shadowed and frantic. She hadn’t seen him like this, in full daylight. He was long and lean and liberally sprinkled with black masculine hair. The sun gods had hammered his skin to a burning bronze and spun streaks of fine gold through his unruly dark mane. Broad shoulders, six-pack abs, firm, flat abdomen…
    She breathed in a lungful of searing heat and he must have heard it, because his head swivelled in her direction.
    â€˜Hi.’ His deep voice rippled across the water. She still couldn’t see his eyes, and wondered if he’d been awake and watching her the entire time she’d been staring like some infatuated schoolgirl.
    She shifted inside her sticky blouse, laid her tote bag on a nearby lounger. ‘Hi.’
    Tossing his glasses onto the side of the pool, herolled off the raft and disappeared into the blue depths, then popped up again at the edge, hauled himself out.
    Water sluiced off his practically naked body, leaving rivulets in the dips and hollows. Droplets snagged on his chest hair. She noticed because he was walking towards her, his shadow looming ahead of him on the cement. She took another breath and lifted her gaze.
    Perhaps it was the sun’s glare behind his head, but she saw nothing except that wicked grin. She recognised that look. She’d seen it too many times as a teenager to dismiss it. It stunned her that he could change from lover to friend just that casually.
    â€˜No.’ She took a step back.
    He grinned, revealing even white teeth. The crease in his right cheek. A black sense of humour.
    She backed up another step. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not kids…’
    Grabbing her around the waist, he rubbed his wet body against hers and shook his hair, scattering drops.
    She screamed, wriggling out of his grasp, her breasts grazing hard, muscled body. ‘Not fair!’ She glared down at her wet-splotched blouse, then at him, and grinned despite herself. For a moment—deliberately, she thought—he’d made her forget the morning’s awkwardness. It calmed her, settled her. Almost. To her surprise, she found herself playing his game. ‘You idiot—just look at me.’
    â€˜I am.’ His voice dropped a notch, and his eyes turned from mischievous to molten, but he reached for a towel and rubbed it over his chest. The rasping sound reminded her of how that crisp masculine hair had felt last night, rubbing against her breasts. Her nipples tightened against her bra.
    To divert his attention from her wet blouse, and to give herself a moment to steady, she yanked the towel from his hands and used it to swipe at her linen trousers. Then hunted a tissue from her pocket and dabbed moisture from her face and neck.
    â€˜Just for that, you can pour me a drink.’ She sank onto the nearest recliner under a large green umbrella. A moment later ice chinked as he poured lemonade into tall glasses and set the pitcher back on the little ceramic table beside her.
    He handed her the