Page 6 of No Mistress Of Mine

His body, she noted as she looked down, had changed less than his face. He still had the wide, powerful shoulders and narrow hips of the athlete he’d been, and from what she could see, six years hadn’t added an ounce of fat to his physique. If anything, he seemed stronger and more powerful at thirty-two than he’d been at twenty-four.

She’d hoped time would have mellowed any acrimony on his part, but now, she feared that hope had been futile.

Still, there was no going back, and she forced herself to speak again. “I came here today assuming Conyers had received all the information from Mr.Forbes and that he had made you aware how things stand. But I see I was mistaken.”

“By God, you’ve got gall, Lola,” he muttered, glaring at her. “I’ll give you that. You’ve got gall.”

Resentment was palpable in every line of his face, in the frigid stance of his body, in the very air of the room. But she had no intention of withering in the face of his anger like some tender little hothouse flower, and Lola met his hostile gaze with a level one of her own. “This is a matter of business,” she said quietly. “It isn’t personal, Denys.”

“Well, that relieves my mind,” he countered, and despite her intention to remain steadfast, she couldn’t help wincing a bit at the sarcasm.

He strode forward, pulled the letter from her fingers, and unfolded it to scan the typewritten lines, but when he looked up, his expression was still implacable.

“Not only the Imperial, but fifty thousand dollars in backing money,” he said as he refolded the sheet. “Mistress to heiress in one simple step.”

She opened her mouth to deny his contention, but then she closed it again. What would be the point of denial? Her role as Henry’s mistress was a fiction of long standing, begun that fateful night in her Paris dressing room six years ago. It was a role both she and Henry had found convenient and one neither of them had ever seen the need to dispel. There was no purpose in telling Denys the truth now, for he would never believe her. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. “Henry was a kind and generous man,” she said instead.

“I daresay. But I am curious. How does his family feel about this particular display of his kindness and generosity?”

“Henry left his wife and children well provided for. The Imperial was only a fraction of his estate.”

“Only a fraction?” He held out the letter. “Then I’m sure poor Gladys and the children didn’t feel the least bit cheated.”

Lola bristled as she snatched the letter from his hand. “His children—who are twenty-three and twenty-six, by the way—didn’t give a damn about Henry when he was alive, and neither did Gladys. None of them had the time of day for him unless they wanted more money, of course.”

Denys’s mouth took on a cynical curve, and his gaze slid downward. “You, I’m sure, were much more devoted.”

Hot color rushed into her face. Playing the part of Henry’s mistress had been easy in New York, but standing in front of Denys now, there was nothing easy about it. Still, one had to live with one’s choices, so Lola took a deep breath and brought the conversation back to the present. “Perhaps instead of talking about Henry, we should talk about what happens next?”

“Next?” He frowned. “I’m not sure I have the pleasure of understanding you.”

“I own one-half of the Imperial, and though your father owns the other half, you manage it. That means you and I will be working together—”

“We most certainly will not.”

She studied him for a moment, then gestured to the doorway behind her. “Since we see the situation so differently, perhaps we should sit down and discuss it? A mutual understanding might be hammered out.”

Not wanting to give him the chance to refuse, she didn’t wait for a reply. Turning away, she reentered his office, resumed her seat in the leather chair opposite his desk where she’d been awaiting his arrival, and crossed her fingers that he would follow. After a moment, he did, but his next words provided little encouragement for an amicable interview.

“I fail to see what there is for us to hammer out,” he said as he circled his desk to face her.

The opening of the outer door interrupted any reply she might have made, and a moment later, Mr.Dawson came bustling into Denys’s office, a laden tray in his hands.

“Here’s your tea, MissValentine. I hope you like Earl Grey. Oh, good morning, sir,” he added as he spied Denys standing behind the desk. Giving his employer a nod, the secretary halted beside Lola’s chair and placed the tea tray on the desk in front of her. “I also brought some biscuits for you in case you might be hungry.”

“Thank you.” In the wake of Denys’s hostility, the secretary’s friendliness was like a soothing balm, and she gave the young man a grateful smile. “How very thoughtful of you.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He reached for the teapot and began to pour her tea. “I must say again how exciting it is to meet you in the flesh, MissValentine. I saw your one-woman show in New York last year, when I was there with my previous employer, and it was spectacular. I still remember how you kicked off the hat of that man in the front row, tossing it into the air with your toe, though how you managed to land it on your own head, I can’t think.” He laughed. “I’ll wager that chap never forgets to remove his hat in the theater again.”

Lola didn’t tell him the man with the hat was always in the audience. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did very much. I hope your presence in London means you intend to do a show here?”

“I’d like to perform here, yes.” She looked over at Denys, and his icy countenance confirmed just how difficult a prospect that was going to be. “We’ll have to see.”

“I do hope you will. I should very much like to see you perform again. Would you care for sugar and milk?”

Lola had no opportunity to reply to that, for Denys interrupted.

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