His One-Night Mistress(9)

She looked very good in it, she thought smugly, and went indoors to change.

She was going to have a wonderful time here. All on her own.





Seth scowled at his reflection in the mirror of his cottage. He looked  godawful. He certainly looked like he could do with a good dose of  R&R. What better place to get it than at the White Cay Resort?

He picked up his razor, running it over his face. The wound that  furrowed his ribs was healing, although too slowly for his liking. It  itched like crazy under the tape. If he could rid himself of the  nightmares that all too often plagued his sleep, he'd be more or less  okay.

Dinner, he thought. He wasn't in the mood for formality. The Tradewind  Room would do fine for tonight. Nor was he in the mood for conviviality,  so hopefully he wouldn't know anyone here. If he kept to himself for a  couple of days, he could go back to the rat race refreshed.

He ran a comb through his thick blond hair and left the cottage,  glancing with pleasure at the long stretch of pale sand and the  impossibly blue sea. But as he entered the foyer of the restaurant, his  heart sank.

"Seth," Conway Fleming said cheerfully. "Wouldn't have expected to find you here-not enough action."

"I came here to get away from it," Seth said, not very tactfully.

Conway laughed heartily. "Don't we all! Do you know Pete Sonyard? Sonyard Yachts … and his wife Jeannine."

Seth dredged up what he knew about the builder of the world's fastest  yachts, and discovered Jeannine was an authority on the history of the  Caribbean islands. As for Conway, Seth had known him, off and on, for  years; he was well regarded on Wall Street, and known as a serious  patron of the arts. As the conversation gathered momentum, Seth started  mentally rehearsing how he was going to get a table to himself.

Then he saw the woman.

She'd just pushed open the door to the foyer. She had on a brief red  dress, her hair a silky fall of raven-black. Her legs were bare and  slender, her feet in ridiculously high-heeled red sandals. Her skin  seemed to glow in the warm rays of the setting sun.

She was incredibly beautiful.

She glanced behind her, then held the door wider for a mother and two  little children to enter. The boy had black hair like hers. He looked  up, asking her something; she crouched to answer him, taking off her  dark glasses, the dress drawn tight across her thighs. The boy tugged at  her hair. She said something that made him laugh, and glanced up at his  mother, the line of her throat making Seth's heart thud in his chest.

How long since he'd felt such instant and imperative lust?

Too long. Much too long.

She and the two children made a delightful tableau, he thought  painfully, and across the room heard her laugh. Husky. Undeniably sexy.  As she stood up, smoothing her dress, his blood pressure jolted up  another notch. The dress was sexy, too, all the more so for being so  sophisticated. It was sleeveless, the neckline and armholes square-cut;  just above the hem, small squares had been cut out of the fabric,  hinting at the skin beneath.

With one final remark to the little family, the black-haired woman  turned and headed for the Tradewind Room. She hadn't even glanced his  way. Infuriated that the intensity of his gaze hadn't caused her to as  much as turn her head, Seth heard Conway say, "Gorgeous, isn't she?"

"You know her?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I don't," Seth said. Her face and body were unforgettable, let alone  her air of confidence and poise, along with the genuine warmth she'd  shown the little boy. She was stunning, he thought, and knew he wanted  to meet her very badly.                       
       
           



       

Maybe, finally, he'd gotten over that debacle of eight years ago.

"I'm surprised you've never run into her, Seth," Conway remarked. "You have an interest in classical music, don't you?"

Seth did. A fledgling, but very genuine passion for something he'd  connected with only a couple of years ago, through his old friend Julian  in Berlin. He frowned. "What's that got to do with it?"

"That's Lia d'Angeli," Conway replied. "Darling of audiences and critics  alike-not to mention the press and the makers of CDs. I'll introduce  you." Raising his voice, he called, "Lia?"

She looked over, saw Conway and smiled spontaneously. Her eyes were  dark, Seth saw, almost as dark as her hair. Both her lips and her nails  were a fire-engine red. It was a very generous and voluptuous mouth, he  thought, his own dry. She said warmly, "Conway! How lovely to see you."

Lia had known Conway for nearly six years; his foundation in support of  the arts had permitted her, four years ago, to purchase a Stradivarius  violin, which had enriched her playing immeasurably. For Conway, she'd  even give up her precious solitude. For one evening, anyway.

He leaned over and kissed her European fashion on both cheeks. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine."

She glanced over at them, prepared to like them as much for Conway's  sake as for their own, and heard him say, "Pete and Jeannine Sonyard,  from Maine. And Seth Talbot, who's based in New York. Lia d'Angeli, the  violinist."

Seth Talbot was standing there. Right in front of her. The late sun was  gilding his blond hair, while his green eyes were fastened on her. The  shock hit Lia with the force of a tidal wave. As the color drained from  her face, the polished mahogany floor swayed and dipped under her feet.  Seth, she thought frantically. It can't be. Oh God, get me out of here.

With all her strength she fought for control, willing the floor to stay  firmly under her feet where it belonged. But to see him again, after so  many years … briefly she closed her eyes, praying that she'd wake up and  find this was nothing but a bad dream.

"Are you all right, Lia?" Conway asked in quick concern, taking her elbow in his hand.

"Yes … sorry. Too much sun today, I guess." With a huge effort she  produced a smile for the Sonyards. "I flew from Helsinki to Toronto  yesterday. A lot of dirty wet snow in Helsinki, and a downpour in  Toronto-I don't recommend visiting either place in April. Do you blame  me for lying out in the sun the minute I got here? But I must have  overdone it."

She was babbling, she thought. Normally she rarely talked about the  weather, there were too many other more interesting things to discuss.  Jeannine laughed, making a commonplace remark about Maine's climate.  Lia's eyes skidded sideways, met Seth's and winced away again.

He said with a pleasure that sounded entirely genuine, "I'm delighted to  meet you, Signora d'Angeli. I have all seven of your CDs, and I've  played them many times."

Shock and dismay were usurped by a torrent of rage that almost  incapacitated Lia. How dare he act as though they'd never met before? As  though she'd never written him two letters eight long years ago telling  him about his impending fatherhood? "I'm flattered," she said with icy  precision, and watched his jaw tighten at her rudeness. Deliberately  allowing her voice to warm, she asked, "Conway, how long are you  staying?"

Conway was looking understandably puzzled; he knew her well enough to  have witnessed her unfailing courtesy to those who were interested in  her playing. "Until tomorrow afternoon," he said. "You'll join us for  dinner this evening?"

"I'd like that very much," Seth interposed.

You would, would you, Lia thought vengefully. Too bad. Not for one  hundred Strads would she sit at the same table as Seth Talbot, whether  they made small talk about the weather or discussed her legato. Because,  of course, he'd now repudiated her twice. Eight years ago and right  now. Just as if the two of them had never spent the night in each  other's arms, and just as though she hadn't gotten pregnant as a result.  She stretched her mouth in a smile that felt utterly false. "I'm afraid  I must decline. I'm dining in the Reef Room tonight, I only came in  here to look around."

Seth was looking at her quizzically. "We've never met, have we, Signora d'Angeli? I can't imagine how I've offended you."

She should have known he wouldn't take her bad manners lying down. Not  the internationally known Seth Talbot, who in the last eight years had  made more money than an entire orchestra earned in its lifetime. It was  on the tip of her tongue to say sweetly, But Mr. Talbot, have you  forgotten how we made love on the balcony of a hotel in Paris? Or the  two letters I sent you afterward, mentioning the minor problem of my  pregnancy?                       
       
           



       

Although it would have given her great satisfaction to have said all  this, Lia bit the words back. If Seth Talbot wanted, once again, to deny  her existence, she should let him do so. That way she'd keep him out of  her life. Preserve her privacy, as she'd done so strenuously for so  long.