The Mistress's Secret Read online

  The Mistress's Secret by Julia James

  Chapter One

  Alanna Richards leafed idly along the racks of cocktail dresses. Each carried a top designer label and was swathed in protective plastic. A wry, almost self-mocking smile hovered around her mouth. Once she had a wardrobe of such dresses. Each more beautiful than the last. Her smile took on a touch of strain. But then, it had been essential that she look as good as she possibly could. Every day.

  Every night.

  Her smile stilled. Memories, long banished, suddenly haunted her. A face — dark-eyed, desiring.

  Abruptly she dropped her hand and started to walk forward again across soft deep carpet. It was time to find Maggie and the boys. It had been stupid of her to indulge in such weakness, however brief. Her memories were locked tightly away. Maybe, one day, when she was an old woman, she would take them out. But until that time, so far ahead of her, it was not safe. Not safe at all.

  Eyes straight ahead, she started for the archway that led through to the escalator lobby of the huge, world famous London department store. It catered to the rich — the very rich — and once Alanna had been a regular customer.

  Now it was as much as she could bear to enter its portals again. Not that it had been her idea. Maggie had enthused over the idea of making a special visit up to town with the boys to see the store's magically decorated Christmas toy department — "Not to buy, of course," Alanna's friend and fellow single mother had laughed. "Just to look. Ben and Nicky would adore it!"

  They had, too — delighting in the lavish display of toys and the wonderful Christmas decorations, and content merely to look. Both children were used to "only looking" when it came to toys. Neither Alanna nor Maggie had money to spare for expensive playthings.

  For a moment regret hovered in her mind. Had she been rash to give away Nikos's money as she had?

  No — she lifted her chin resolutely — it had been the right thing to do. The only thing! It had been money she'd had no right to — none at all. The little she had kept had been enough to keep her and Nicky out of state support. Next year, when Nicky started school, she would be able to work during the school day, and then her finances would ease a little.

  But never again — her eyes wandered sideways one last time to a mannequin wearing a glittering evening dress that didn't even have a price displayed — would she ever wear anything like that….

  Not like that female there, she thought, her gaze lighting on a chicly clad blonde wearing what was obviously a designer suit, pursing her lips thoughtfully over the evening dress. The woman was about her age, she thought, a few years under thirty, and she had that polished perfection about her that told Alanna immediately that she spent her days doing nothing but having her hair and nails done and making herself look fabulous.

  The way I used to spend my days….

  She paused momentarily to study the woman. Yes, she thought, her lips tightening, I used to be just like that. Checking out the very best in clothes. So that I could look my very best.

  For Leon.

  Memory leaped back, seizing her throat, making her breath catch chokingly. It was this place that had done it, reminded her of that beautiful, expensive world she'd once, so briefly, inhabited. The sight of these glamorous, expensive clothes had ripped away that fragile — terrifyingly fragile — barrier that she had erected day by day…year-by-year…against a single man, a single name.

  Leon Andreakos.

  Greek.

  Rich.

  Gorgeous.

  Fantastically, wonderfully, irresistibly gorgeous. All six foot two of him. From the top of his silky, sable hair to his long, lithe legs. And everything in between. The most fantastic male she'd ever set eyes on. Ever would set eyes on. Ever could set eyes on.

  Whom she would never see again.

  His face was in front of her again, tormenting her memory — that arrogant tilt of the head; the high, sculpted cheekbones; and those eyes, so dark, swept by eyelashes so thick and long that they were wasted on a man. But nothing, nothing at all, was wasted on Leon Andreakos. Not an inch of that toned, muscled flesh that she had once known so intimately…

  Her mouth twisted.

  No, she had never known Leon Andreakos. She had known his body — and he had known hers…oh, how he had known hers! — but she had never known the man. He had never permitted that. Always, always, even in the tempest of their physical union, even at the more intense moments of their shared sensuality, he had kept that distance between them, never letting her close that gap, always, always holding her just far enough away.

  There was a hardness now in her eyes, and behind the hardness, a pain that would never leave her. After all, what man like Leon Andreakos would ever let his mistress become emotionally close to him?

  Let alone fall in love with him.

  She shut her eyes, feeling the pain sweep over her. Pain she had pushed aside nearly five long bitter years ago because what was the use of feeling it? She could weep and agonize over loving Leon Andreakos all she liked, but he would never love her, and so what was the point of all her pain, all her wasted love?

  And it wasn't just that Leon Andreakos didn't love her.

  He hated her.

  She'd seen that hatred, seen it loud and clear and spearing from his eyes as if it were a knife to plunge deep into her heart. Hatred for what she had done to him, to his family…to his brother.

  Another emotion flushed through her like acid eating her from the inside. She had tried to stop that emotion, too, but it was no use; it came flooding back, rocking her with the force of it.

  Guilt.

  Guilt over Nikos, who was dead because of her.

  She forced her eyes open. Making the real world come back. Not the world that haunted her, the sickening memories of that terrible, deadly night when Leon Andreakos's brother had died.

  Her eyes rested on the first thing they saw — that chicly dressed blonde who was reaching out her hand, fingering the fabric of the evening gown while she considered whether or not it would sufficiently adorn her beauty. Then, as Alanna's gaze rested on her, half-blind still, torn still between memory and reality, the woman's head turned. A smile lit her face. Of greeting, of pleasure…of satisfaction.

  A man was walking into the department, walking with lean, long strides up to the beautiful blonde, who was smiling at him…and he was smiling at her. Smiling at the beautiful woman who was gracing his arm in the clothes he had bought her, gracing his bed in return for those clothes…

  Faintness washed over Alanna. The room swam, and she felt her legs weaken, her whole body weaken.

  It couldn't be…. But it was.

  Blood drummed in her ears like a crashing tide.

  For the first time in over four long, endless years she was looking at Leon Andreakos again.

  Chapter Two

  Alanna could not move. Not a muscle. She could only stand, paralyzed, while in front of her, Leon Andreakos walked up to the woman who was his current mistress.

  Leon Andreakos, whom she had not set eyes on for nearly five long years, whose mistress she had once been in another lifetime, another existence….

  The lush surroundings of the store's eveningwear department vanished. The years vanished. She was standing, once again, behind the counter of the gift shop in the lobby of the expensive west end hotel while the most fabulous man she had ever laid eyes on walked up to her.

  He had come up to the counter and smiled at her. And in that moment, that single moment, she had felt her heart swoop like a bird plunging from the topmost branch of the tree. To abase herself at his feet in worship of his male perfection, his sensual, sexual potency.

  "Would you gift wrap a scarf for me?" His eyes had flickered briefl
y to her and then moved to the flowing cascade of silk scarves that hung from a display at the end of the counter. Long fingers moved swiftly and then selected one patterned in muted grays and soft pinks. "This one, I think."

  He removed it and draped it on the counter in front of her. His eyes came back to her. An eyebrow rose.

  "If you please?"

  The prompt had jolted her. Jolted her out of the total daze that had overcome her as she had stared, mesmerized at this most devastating-looking man. Tall, with dark, Mediterranean looks, dressed in a charcoal business suit that hugged every line of his lean body, and eyes…oh, eyes that made her heart swoop again — this time right up to the clouds, to the sky beyond…

  "Yes — yes, of course, sir," she managed in a voice suddenly far too tight, too faint. "Um…do you want to have it delivered to your room, or do you wish to wait?"

  How she had got out that second sentence she did not know. She didn't know anything suddenly, not a thing — only that she just wanted to stare and stare at the face of the man in front of her.

  It was his eyes…no, his mouth…no, everything, just everything! Everything just made her want to gaze and gaze at him. His eyes were so dark, but they had fleck of light in them, and she wanted to drown in them. His mouth was sculpted, perfect, but there was a mobility to it that made her insides weak….

  "I'll wait — if you don't take too long."

  It was his voice! That's what it was, Alanna thought, desperate to try to make her brain work again, make it reason…when all it wanted to do was to dissolve into formless goo. His voice — deep, accented. What accent? She forced herself to think as she heard her own voice murmuring, "Of course, sir," as she reached under the counter for the silver tissue paper. She felt her hand fumbling and dragged her eyes away. She couldn't just stand here staring at this man…she had to gift wrap the scarf. It was what he was waiting for her to do.

  How she managed it she did not know. The man did not move, simply stood there, immobile, his eyes resting on her bowed head as her fingers fumbled hopelessly with the task. Usually she was deft and nimble with gift wrapping; today she was hopeless. And it was because of him.

  And all the while he said nothing, just waited, and she could hear his impatience mounting.

  He glanced at his watch once, she could tell, saw from the corner of her eye the swift lift of his wrist, the faint flash of gold.

  Finally it was done, and she gave the last ribbon one final curl with the edge of her scissors. With relief she reached for the snipped off tag and flashed it through the bar-code reader and got on with printing out the invoice. The cost of the scarves still astounded her — she could have bought an entire outfit for the price of one of these hand-painted silken works of art. But then everything about working in this luxury gift shop in this five-star hotel still astounded her — that people really existed who could afford what the shop stocked, who could afford to stay at the hotel in the first place.

  This man certainly could. She had come to recognize money when it walked around the lobby, and this man was a walking gold mine. Everything about him shrieked it, from his superb tailored business suit to the tips of his Italian handmade shoes.

  Just as everything about him shrieked that he was the most gorgeous male she'd ever seen.

  And she was going to have to look at him again. She couldn't complete the transaction keeping her head bowed. With huge effort, as if she were lifting a great weight, she looked up at him.

  "Would you prefer to pay here, sir, or shall I charge it to your room?"

  As her gaze met his she felt her heart do that terrifying, enthralling swoop again, and a tiny gasp escaped her constricted throat.

  For a second his eyes narrowed, as if focusing on her properly for the first time, and then, in the next instant, he smiled again.

  That palpable aura of impatience vanished. Completely vanished. In its place his eyes washed over her.

  Caressing her…

  The swoop came again from a greater height, and she gave that little gasp again. Something changed in his eye — amusement, that was it.

  And it devastated her even more.

  "Charge it to my room," he instructed in that deep, accented voice. "1209."

  "And the name, sir?" she asked, her voice still faint. She needed a name to countercheck against the reservations computer in case of fraud. He took the payment slip she offered him and scrawled across the signature line.

  "Andreakos. Leon Andreakos." He picked up the gift-wrapped scarf. "Kalispera, thespinis," he murmured in his deep, accented voice and walked out.

  Greek, she thought weakly. He's Greek.

  Greek.

  Rich.

  Gorgeous.

  And now, almost five years since she had first had her life turned upside down by Leon Andreakos, she was seeing him again.

  Alanna went on standing, paralyzed, every muscle frozen.

  And slowly, like in some hideous slow motion, she saw him reach the woman, saw his gaze flicker past her to head beyond the blonde toward her like some dire, deadly missile…where it came to rest.

  For a moment, just a brief instant, he did not recognize her. Then, as the night-dark eyes focused, they hardened. Like steel. Like the blade of a knife ripping into her exposed, defenseless flesh.

  She reeled. It was a like a blow to the heart — without mercy.

  Ignoring his current mistress, he stalked across to his former mistress, his heavy tread silent over the thick, soft carpet. The blonde glared, irritated by his distraction by another woman — and such a woman. Wearing nothing but a jersey and trousers, not in the least fashionable, bought off the rack from a budget chain store. Utterly unworthy of the perfection that was Leon Andreakos.

  Alanna stood there, waiting. Waiting for Leon Andreakos, who had once been all the world to her, and to whom she was now nothing, worse than nothing.

  He stopped dead. His eyes were glittering obsidian. Full of loathing.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled.

  Chapter Three

  His voice was the same — deep and accented, but filled now with a cold anger as Leon Andreakos demanded to know the reason why his cast-off mistress from five long years ago dared to be in his presence again. He had banished Alanna from his life — from his family — from further contaminating any Andreakos at all.

  Alanna felt hysteria beading in her stricken throat. Dear God, did he think she had waylaid him here on purpose? A man she had never thought to set eyes on again for the rest of her life? As she stared at him, totally frozen, she saw him glance at an inconspicuous man standing some little ways away by the exit to the escalator lobby.

  His bodyguard. Leon Andreakos always had a bodyguard in tow. He was a wealthy man. Very wealthy. Such men were a target. A target for thieves, kidnappers — and greedy, gold-digging women.

  That's what Leon had thought her, Alanna knew. One more in the long line of beautiful women who used their beauty to get their greedy little fingers inside his wallet. Get him to shower his money on them.

  Self-condemnation shadowed her eyes. Leon had been right about her in that — she'd been overwhelmed by his wealth, incredulous that he should lavish so much of it down upon her, to whom luxury had been totally unknown. After a lifetime of perpetual scrimping and saving, with barely enough for essentials, let alone anything else, she had gone wild as his mistress, she knew, lapping up the luxurious lifestyle with Leon like a kitten standing four-paw in a bowl of cream.

  She had reveled in the clothes he’d bought her, the gifts he’d given her, the places he’d taken her to. Reveled in the whole wonderful, magical bliss of being the woman in Leon Andreakos's life, envied by all other women — yet he had chosen her, just ordinary her, had plucked her out of the hotel gift shop and selected her for his bed. And she had gone willingly, eagerly, helplessly, the thought of turning down his wonderful, magical invitation never even a possibility. Because what woman could possibly turn down Leon Andreakos?
r />   "Well?" Leon's harsh voice cut through her self-recrimination. Like some hideous mocking replay of the very first time he'd ever spoken to her in the hotel gift shop, Alanna was unable to reply, unable to force her voice to work. But she had to speak, say something, anything. Even though her limbs felt like water and her bones like soft wax.

  "Nothing —" The word mumbled from her. She swallowed and said it again, clearer this time. "Nothing."

  The memory of the last time he had spoken to her assailed her. The very last words he had said to her as he had barred her from his brother Nikos's funeral.

  "Whore! Murdering whore!"

  She stumbled past him, but a hand shot out, closing over her arm like a steel band, fingers digging into her flesh.

  "Let me go!"

  For one long, devastating, soul-consuming moment she stared into his night-dark eyes.

  And in that one moment the present was ripped away, back, back into the past they had once had together.

  Torment and bliss. Agony and ecstasy. All at the same time.

  Oh Leon, Leon — how I loved you once! How I would have thrown myself at your feet! But you didn't want me — you didn't want me for anything except your bed. And you thought that all I wanted from you was your money….

  His eyes seared into hers, and in that flash of fire she knew, with a hollowing of her insides, that it was not just his wealth that had overwhelmed her. It had been him — every inch of him, every pulse of his raw, potent sexuality that could melt her bones, pool her like honey in his arms with a single touch, a single kiss….

  The memory of his very first kiss flared in her. He had come back to the gift shop the following evening….

  He placed the scarf, loosely folded within the opened wrapping tissue, in front of her.

  "Is it faulty?" she asked anxiously.

  He gave a caustic smile — but not at her.

  "The wrong color, so I was informed." There was a bite beneath the accent. He was annoyed; she could tell.

  "Would you like to exchange it?" she offered. She tried to slow the sudden rapid beating of her heart that had happened the moment he'd walked back into the gift shop. Tried to stop her eyes from just gazing helplessly at him. She'd thought of him all night. Tossing and turning in the narrow bed in the poky flat in the dreary part of London that was all she could afford on her meager wages. His face kept appearing in front of her closed eyes, and she could not banish it. Did not want to. Wanted to keep thinking about it, thinking about him — dreaming about him.