Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (8 page)

“Pity, because I am not in need of a charlady. You came here tonight to ascertain your role as my employee.” Suddenly his expression was decisive, his demeanour all brook-no-argument business. “I do not need household help of any variety. I do not need a driver or a personal shopper or a valet.” As if to reinforce that point, he crossed to his dressing room and emerged pulling on a shirt. “I need you here with your sister. I need you to keep Amanda's persistent curiosity satisfied and to run interference if her path should cross Francesca's. Do you understand?”

Isabelle's eyes rocketed from shirt buttons to his face. She nodded. This was better; this even sounded like a sensible idea. “Yes,” she said with new enthusiasm. “I can do that.”

“I have every confidence that you can.”

“And what about the other role?”

“As my lover?”

“Your
pretend
lover.” That had to be made clear right from the start.

And when he closed down the space between them, she held her ground and held his gaze. She didn't allow herself to be distracted by his hands tucking in the shirt or by the churn of heat in her blood as he stopped in front of her. “I have every confidence in you, Isabelle,” he said, but there was a hint of wickedness in both voice and eyes as they drifted over her face. “I believe you will satisfy me in any role you take on, whether pretend or otherwise.”

 

“He's paying you to be his mistress for a week? And buying you clothes?” Chessie grinned widely. “Hello,
PrettyWoman!
”

Isabelle did not grin back. She prowled the sitting room, unable to sit still. Unable to believe that she'd agreed to this ridiculous ruse or that she'd slept for twelve long hours after accepting the role. Cristiano Verón's pretend lover. In the clear light of a perfect spring morning, that idea made as much sense as her sister's movie reference.

“I'm not playing his mistress or dressing to impress his business associates. He's buying me an outfit so I don't look out of place at a charity dinner.” She exhaled a soft gust of annoyance. “As if dressing me in expensive clothes will make a difference.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning everyone will know I'm a fraud.”

“Because you don't know which glass for red and which for white? Or which silverware to use for which course? Or how to unfold your serviette?” Chessie asked. “You can cook, plate and serve a formal seven-course dinner with your eyes closed, and you know it. What is the real problem? Is it Cristo?”

“It's Cristo, and it was meeting Amanda.” Her gaze met her sister's and then slid away. She'd shared the gist of that meeting but not all the details. Chessie did not need the health issues influencing her decisions; that had to be between her and Harrington. “He expects me to play the part of his lover,” she continued in a rush. “I know it's just acting, and an explanation for why we're here and to allay Amanda's curiosity, but he's paying me and now he's spending more money on fancy clothes.”

“Necessary clothes,” Chessie insisted. “Think of it as a uniform.”

“A designer uniform that costs hundreds and hundreds of pounds?”

“Thousands, I imagine,” Chessie said cheerfully. Then, when she saw the horror in Isabelle's eyes, “Come on, Belle, you know how these millionaires drop money. Look around you. How much would this room alone have cost to decorate? To Cristo an outfit that costs a thousand pounds would be like you dropping a five-cent coin. Why can't you just embrace it, have some fun? Like Cinderella, getting to go to the ball.”

Isabelle gave her a look.

“You know what I think,” her sister said thoughtfully. Wearing jeans and a sloppy joe, she still managed to look perfectly at home stretched out on an ornate cream and gold chaise longue that probably cost more than Isabelle's entire home full of furniture. “I think Cristo gets a thrill out of winding you up. I bet he's banking on more resistance. He's probably kicking back in his office right now with that wicked little smile he gets…you know the one…where just the corners of his mouth lift up?”

Isabelle swallowed. She knew that smile. It was a bone-melting mixture of rich treacle and pure testosterone. “And what do you suppose he's smiling about?” she asked her sister, intrigued despite herself.

“The prospect of another head-to-head with you. Imagine his surprise if you're waiting at the door, the ever-efficient employee, all ready to sweetly do your boss's bidding.”

 

She could do this. Not because she subscribed to Chessie's suggestion of a game of one-upmanship—she was pretty sure that Cristo the grand master, with black belt, would have her on the figurative mat before the end of round one—but because Isabelle Browne was, at heart, an agreeable person.
After years of blocking her ears against the emotional melodramas played out between her parents, she preferred peaceable.

And no matter how aggravating she found this situation, Cristo was her boss. She had agreed to his terms; she was contracted as his employee. If a little part of her was wildly attracted to the notion of setting him off-kilter with unexpected compliance, who was to know?

She'd apprised Chessie in no uncertain terms that she wasn't playing games. That she took every one of Cristo's incendiary remarks with a grain of he-is-so-full-of-it salt. Ignoring Chessie's raised eyebrows and murmured “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” she set about locating her least-shabby jeans and underwear for the shopping expedition.

She'd narrowed the selection to a matched set of lace-trimmed lilac—a birthday gift from Chessie two years back and showing signs of age—and a basic white combination, plain but near new, when Chessie called her to the phone.

“Cristo,” she said. “I can barely hear him, but I imagine he wants you.”

Through the pitchy whine of jet engines, she could hear him clearly enough to recognise the all-about-business tone. He had to fly to Spain, urgent, unavoidable.

Isabelle didn't have time to summon any sense of relief before he told her he would be home for tonight's dinner. Amanda would be taking her shopping. She frowned through a ridiculous jolt of disappointment. “Isn't that a bit risky? I thought you'd be trying to keep us apart.”

“Impossible. She called this morning wanting to meet us for lunch.”

“Oh.”

“Let her do all the talking,” he advised, “and you'll be fine.”

“But what about Chessie?”

“Crash will look after her.”

Which is how she found herself crawling through thick London traffic in the backseat of the same chauffeur-driven car as yesterday—a Maybach, Amanda informed her, with doesn't-everyone-travel-like-this nonchalance. She'd tried to get out of the shopping trip, first when Amanda called to set a pick-up time and then when she arrived an apologetic fifty minutes late.

“Last-minute crisis,” she'd explained. “Bloody job.”

“You should have called me,” Isabelle said, appalled that she'd dragged her away from work. “You don't have to do this.”

“Oh, yes. I do.” She shepherded a reluctant Isabelle out the door and toward the limo. “A couple of phone calls, problem sorted, crisis averted,” Amanda continued. “Now I'm taking an extra-long lunch because I can. I have an in with the boss,” she confided, wriggling her fingers so the antique-set diamond on her left hand caught the sun.

Isabelle couldn't
not
comment. “Your ring, it's stunning,” she said, each word tasting thick and dry in her mouth.

“Isn't it? Harry found it at an estate sale in Bavaria.”

“I suppose he travels a lot with his work.”

“A lot and often. Usually I don't mind, but at the moment, with so much to do for the wedding…” Her voice trailed off, and for the briefest moment she looked exposed, almost forlorn. Then she inhaled through her nose and shot Isabelle a rueful smile. “I suspect he volunteered for this trip. ‘Please, Justin, find me somewhere to go, anything to get me out of town.' This wedding has become a monster that's taken over my life.”

That honesty, the deprecating humour—Isabelle was beginning to like Cristo's sister a little too much to continue the
secretive charade. “Look,” she said, barely able to meet her eyes. “You are much too busy for this.”

“For helping Cristo out? Never. Do you know how often he's asked for my help?” Amanda raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

“Um…not often?” Isabelle guessed.

“Exactly, and I want to redress the balance, just a little.” Her gaze remained appealingly earnest, despite her carefree tone. “Besides, we're talking about shopping, which is one of my favourite pastimes, and spending Cristo's money. Which, according to him, is my other.”

Isabelle looked dubious.

“Humour me,” Amanda continued. “I've called ahead. It's all arranged. Nina is giving us private access to her whole collection.”

“Nina?”

“We're here!” Amanda indicated an understated shopfront in a street of understated shopfronts.

Isabelle blinked. She had been expecting…To be honest, she didn't know. Perhaps Selfridges or Harvey Nichols or a sign that proclaimed Outrageously Expensive Couture.

“If I'd had more notice, I would have called in a stylist, but Nina is the next best thing. She has all the labels and exquisite taste. Come on,” Amanda said, looping her arm through Isabelle's and gently urging her across the mile-wide seat toward the door. “Let's go spend an insane amount of my brother's money.” Seeing the look on Isabelle's face, she smiled wickedly. “Don't worry, he has plenty. And when he gets an eyeful of you in full Nina-fied splendour, he won't mind a bit.”

C
risto paused outside her door. The music playing inside was loud enough to recognise as Vivaldi even through the closed door. In all likelihood it would drown out the sound of his knock, but he allowed her a minute to answer regardless. According to Crash, whom he'd passed on the stairs, she was ready and waiting. According to Amanda's
mission-accomplished
text, she had the perfect dress, shoes, hairstyle.

Frankly, he'd expected more resistance. To the shopping expedition and to attending tonight's gala on his arm. Driving in from the airport, he'd thought about the upcoming clash of words and wills with much expectation and some impatience. The twenty-four hours since he'd last seen her seemed infinitely longer, and he'd stretched it another thirty minutes to shower, shave and dress. Dinner suit, black tie, standard for these events he was compelled to attend.

Tonight was different. For once he didn't feel compelled.
His body hummed with anticipation as he knocked once again. Then, done with waiting, he opened the door.

The sitting room was filled with the music's liquid notes and all the signs of a successful shopping expedition. Carrier bags, several pairs of abandoned shoes, a jewelled evening bag that caught the chandelier's sparkle and flung the light in a score of new directions.

But no Isabelle.

The door to her bedroom lay open, and through the concerto's diminuendo he caught the sparkling notes of laughter. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and his body quickened with recognition. It was her voice that caused both reactions, although Francesca's was there in the background, no doubt spurring the laughter as she so often did.

Scooping up a discarded shoe from his path, he started across the room only to come to a stonewall halt when Isabelle hurried into view. Her head was turned as she flung a last comment back at her sister, and she didn't see him for several thick heartbeats. It was enough time for him to take in the picture—and,
Dios,
what a picture she made—and to pick his jaw up from the floor.

She turned, the laughter still in her eyes even as it died on her lips. She stopped. Blinked once. “You're here.”

“So it would appear,” he said.

The first impact had been all about her—the expanse of creamy skin, the ripple of her hair as she turned, the stimulating stroke of her laughter.

Now he took stock of the rest with a long, leisurely appraisal. Her dress, a column of scarlet. The fabric, soft and lustrous, cut and draped to make the most of her sensational figure. The rise of her breasts as she drew a breath, the shadow of cleavage that disappeared from view as she lifted a hand to the low-cut neckline.

At the other end the dress pooled over her feet to the carpet. Not quite ready and waiting. He held up the shoe in his hand. “Yours?”

“Yours,” she replied, not echoing his question but answering it. The proud set of her chin let him know her meaning. She wasn't accepting his purchases. They would be worn; they would remain his property.

Their gazes met and held, a current of energy arcing between them. A new edge sharpened Cristo's anticipation. A knowledge that despite her stance and her words, she felt the same crackle of awareness. The same charged heat in her blood.

This was the Isabelle whose company he relished. The one who stood her ground, who met his gaze with steady strength to state her case.

Eyes locked on hers, he slowly closed the space between them. “If this is mine,” he said, holding the delicate silvery straps in one hand and tapping the spiked heel against the palm of his other, “then do I get to put it on your foot, Cinderbella?”

At his play on her name, irritation flashed in her eyes. But before she could voice her objection, Francesca appeared in the doorway.

“Cheating,” she said shortly, indicating the shoe with a wave of her hand. “Obviously that will be a perfect fit, given you bought it for her.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Not really,” Francesca said. “Since I'm about to leave you to whatever sport you have in mind.”

That earned an appreciative grin from Cristo and a cutting glare from her sister. “There's no need,” she said briskly. “Once I put on the shoes, we'll be leaving, too.”

“Then I will see you downstairs,” Francesca replied. “I'm off to check out the coach and horses.”

The door closed with a hollow thud, shutting them off. Alone. Their eyes met briefly as he handed her the shoe. “No coach,” he told her. “Just the Maybach.”

“Chessie likes to wind me up.”

“Is Cinderella a hot button?” he asked.

“A warm one,” she said, collecting the second shoe before sliding them both onto her feet. Three inches taller, she straightened and met his eyes. “Given my job, it's an old joke. Usually I pay it no mind.”

“You think that tonight there is a reason to pay it mind?”

“The shopping, this dress, it's all a bit much.”

“No, the dress is not too much,” he countered softly. “In fact, it is precisely as I requested.”

Her gaze sharpened on his, a frown tugging her newly shaped eyebrows together. “You gave Amanda specific instructions on how to dress me?”

Cristo hitched a shoulder. “General rather than specific.”

“Such as?”

“I requested a dress that would enhance your beauty, not overwhelm it. This—” his voice dropped with his gaze, taking in the flutter of pulse at the base of her throat and the rosy flush in her exposed skin “—is almost perfect.”

“Almost?”
She stared at him, her expression a perfect blend of confusion and indignation. “The price you paid, there should not be anything lacking!”

“Just this one thing.”

With a deft hand he fished a necklace from his inside pocket. Three rows of pearls fashioned into a contemporary choker, the piece was classic, simple perfection. Perfect for the dress, perfect for Isabelle.

“No.” Her hand came up to her throat in a protective
gesture as she took a step back. “I told Amanda, the dress is enough. I don't need any jewellery.”

“So she said, but I disagree.”

“It's too much.”

“Let me be the judge,” he said, taking back the space she'd put between them and a little more. “Turn around,” he said softly.

For a wilful second she stood her ground, shoulders squared, gaze fixed steadily on his. “Jewellery was not in the deal.”

“Nor, as I recall, was hair or makeup.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “If you object—”

“No, I approve.”

“Good,” she said darkly. “You paid enough for those, as well.”

“Good,” he retorted, smothering a smile. “I hope you gained some measure of enjoyment at my expense.”

“You could have saved yourself a lot of money by sending me and Chessie.”

“Would you have gone?” he asked, circling around her, taking in the dress from all angles. “And would you have chosen
this
dress?”

“No, there was this smoky grey one with—”

“I hate grey.”

“I know.”

Cristo laughed, and her frown darkened. “If you mean to annoy me, you will have to do better than that,” he said softly. “I am in far too accommodating a mood.”

“Your meeting in Spain, did that go well?”

That emergency seemed a lifetime ago. He'd solved it. He'd moved on. Now he wanted to concentrate on her. “Better than expected,” he said, turning his focus to the tense set of her shoulders and the tumble of honey-gold hair that, although newly cut, still hit her shoulder blades. He gathered the glossy
curls in one hand, baring her nape, releasing a subtle fragrance from hair and skin.

He hoped he'd wiped Spain and business from both their minds, but just in case he leaned forward to inhale the scent of warm honey and nectarine blossom and female skin. “Nice,” he murmured.

“It's Jo Malone,” she said faintly. “Amanda insisted.”

“I must remember to thank her.”

He pushed her hair forward over one shoulder and took his time sliding the pearls around her throat, absorbing the lightning spark of contact as his fingers brushed her skin. He may have imagined her quicksilver shiver of response. He did not imagine the heat rushing south in his blood.

The necklace clasp was a kindergarten task. Cristo could have managed it in the dark at any other time, but not on Isabelle's neck. His fingers preferred to linger on her skin, his gaze on the vulnerable curve beneath her ear. The temptation to lean forward, to press a kiss to that precise spot, sang with the violins in the air.

“We will never get there at this rate,” she murmured, but the breathy catch in her voice was not impatience. And it spoke straight to his gathering arousal. “Let me get it.”

“I wish,” he murmured gruffly. Then, when she squirmed beneath his hands, “Hold still.”

The catch clicked shut, but the temptation remained. He leaned close, pressed open lips to silky skin, and she leaped forward as if stung. Her hair whipped around her shoulders as she turned, but when her gaze fastened on his, something palpable churned between them. Awareness, knowledge, desire.

Her nostrils flared slightly, and whatever admonishment she'd been about to lay on him froze on her parted lips. One hand lifted, fingertips to the pearls. “Thank you,” was all she said.

“My pleasure.”

Cristo could have pursued the mood, could have pushed the energy swirling like the lush orchestral notes between them, but they were already late. The whole evening stretched ahead, a feast of Isabelle, a smorgasbord of opportunity.

“Ready?”

She nodded and gathered her bag. Then her gaze caught the time on the mantel clock, and the frown rushed back full tilt. “Will we be very late?” she fretted.

“Fashionably. Which could work for the better,” he mused with a lazy smile.

“How is that?”

“We will be noticed, tongues will wag,” he replied, taking her hand. “Arriving together, hand in hand, your hair slightly dishevelled. That should address any concerns about the credibility of our relationship, don't you think?”

 

Isabelle assumed he'd taken her hand as a demonstration of his point, but coming down the stairs she needed his hold for balance. She'd never worn heels so high. Amanda had dismissed her qualms. “It's a dinner,” she'd said. “You'll be sitting.” Nina agreed. Neither of them mentioned the perilous walking involved in getting to said dinner table, and she'd been having too much fun trying on clothes and soaking up every glimpse of Cristo offered through his sister's eyes. Amanda, as he'd said, liked to talk.

Inside the limo he took her hand again, which meant that despite the roomy interior—honestly, they could have held a charity fundraiser in the rear of this car—he was sitting far too close. Not quite touching, except when he leaned forward to point out one of the attractions beyond her side window. She leaned closer to the cool glass, peering out
with feigned interest, although the passing sights barely registered.

Apparently Cristo Verón was the only attraction London had to offer her single-tracked senses.

Although understandable—handsome at the best of times, in black tie the man was truly a traffic stopper—it was an irritation that worried at her like a snappy terrier. Before and after the fact, she hated the extravagance of this afternoon's shopping, and yet at the time, she'd slipped into whatever the redoubtable Nina had passed her way. She'd walked out of the store with a staggering array of clothing, not only for tonight but to cover any likely outing over the next days.

Due to the efforts of Amanda and Nina and Perri the hair magician, she looked the part of a rich man's date, but that was only the external. What about the rest? What did Cristo expect of her at the charity gala? Would he continue to hold her hand, would they dance, would he whisper in her ear and kiss that sweet spot he'd hit upstairs?

Would that be their role, as new lovers unable to keep their hands from each other?

Heat rippled through her blood, the same sensation as when his fingertips had brushed her nape as he'd fastened the necklace. The same as every time he touched her.

Isabelle rubbed her arm in a vain attempt to dispel the tingle.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No.” Far from it. “Just…nervous.”

“There is no need.”

“Even though we will be noticed and tongues will wag?”

His grip on her hand tightened, enough to draw her gaze around to meet his. Dark as the night, steady, serious. “I was teasing, Isabelle. There is no need for nerves. You will manage beautifully.”

“You don't know me well enough to make that call. I might have appalling table manners. I might drink excessively and tell hideous jokes. I might trip over in these heels and land face-first in some duke's lap!”