Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress

“This role?” she echoed.

“As my lover, my girlfriend, my mistress, my woman. Which would you prefer?”

“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I won't do it. I would rather scrub floors.”

“You came here tonight to ascertain your role as my employee.” Suddenly his expression was decisive, his demeanour all brooking-no-argument business. “I do not need household help of any variety. I need you here, as my lover.”

“Your
pretend
lover.”

And when he closed down the space between them, she held her ground and held his gaze. “I have every confidence in you, Isabelle,” he said evenly, but there was a hint of wicked 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.”

Dear Reader,

Do you remember when you first started reading romance? I was young—I don't recall exactly how young, but my mother used to order the English Woman's Weekly, which carried serialized Mills and Boon novels. Waiting for the next issue to see what happened next was torturous, and I was soon seeking and devouring the books.

Many of my favorites were set in London and the English countryside, as were many of my family's television favorites of the time:
Upstairs, Downstairs; The Forsyte Saga; The Avengers.
This firmly seeded in me a love of all things English. The accents, the manners, the stately homes, the countryside and cottages and hedgerows. My favorite movie list includes
Love, Actually; Notting Hill; Four Weddings and a Funeral
and
Pride and Prejudice.

Setting one or more of my books in England was inevitable, and the stories of sisters Isabelle and Chessie Browne fit perfectly. My first visit to England was for
my
sister's wedding, you see, and I was lucky enough to return a couple of years ago and revisit some of my favorite spots—and find some new ones—in and around London. These added to a lifetime of beloved reading and viewing experiences to create the world of this book.

It is an extremely affluent world, one Isabelle has only experienced as a housekeeper to the wealthy, and even then she's seen nothing like the townhouse or the country estate belonging to Cristiano Verón. She is swept into a world of polo and personal shoppers and charity benefits, a fairy-tale world she believes fits no better than the couture clothes and designer shoes.

I hope you enjoy Isabelle's Cinderella transformation and that you will look out for Chessie's book, titled
Billionaire's Inconvenient Bride,
in January 2010.

Cheers,

Bronwyn

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

“S
teady, baby, there is no rush. We have all the time in the world.” Cristiano Verón shifted his weight over Gisele's back, the touch of his hand on her neck as deeply soothing as his voice. Between his legs, she quivered with contained excitement as their pace eased to a smooth, rolling rhythm.

“Good girl,” he murmured. Another slow caress from ear to shoulder echoed his praise. “Perfect.”

Gisele was so responsive, so biddable, so willing to please. So unlike the other females in his life, although that cynical observation did not dampen his bone-deep pleasure of this moment nor dim his satisfied smile. The verdant scent of spring filled his nostrils. Glorious sunshine warmed his back and arms for the first time in weeks. And when he swung his polo stick, the smack of contact with the ball fired exhilaration through his body.

Not better than sex, but hitting the polo field—even stick-
and-balling alone—ranked second on Cristo's personal pleasure scale.

Lately there'd been too few opportunities for pleasure. He could not recall the last weekend that wasn't built around business or family obligations, or the last Sunday he'd spent at his Hertfordshire estate. And,
Dios,
he missed his stables, he missed his ponies, he missed the passion and the controlled aggression of this game.

With a light press of his thighs, Cristo guided the favourite of his ponies through a series of sure-footed turns. As always, she responded sweetly, answering every command without argument. If only that were true of—

The thought stopped dead. Cristo's eyes narrowed on the lone figure standing dead centre of his practice pitch. Not one of the females hell-bent on driving him loco, but a near relation.

Hugh Harrington, his sister's fiancé.

Resigned to the interruption Cristo swore softly but without heat. It wasn't that he disliked his future brother-in-law. Hugh had pursued Amanda with the same single-minded purpose he displayed on the polo pitch, and that steadfast attitude had earned Cristo's grudging approval. Now if Hugh were standing midfield in his polo kit, Cristo would have welcomed his arrival with unbridled delight. But no, the younger man wore business clothes and an expression of grim determination on his pretty-boy face.

Another wedding drama, Cristo predicted. The damned event had turned into a circus of mammoth dimensions, and since Cristo was writing the cheques, he also suffered through the daily crises reported by Amanda and their mother.

He reminded himself it would be over in less than a month. Amanda would lose the manic bride-to-be tic. Vivi would resume her pursuit of husband number five. Life would return to normal.

Just twenty-eight more days…

Easing Gisele to a halt, he greeted his unexpected visitor with a laconically raised brow. “I thought you were casting your eye over a property in Provence.”

“Finished the appraisal, flew home last night,” Hugh said. Straightening his shoulders, he drew a breath that puffed out his chest. “I'm sorry to intrude on your practice, and on a Sunday. I won't keep you long, but I have to speak with you.”

“That sounds ominous. What is it this time?” Cristo asked mildly. “Roses refusing to bloom? Caterer resigned in a snit? Another bridesmaid turned up pregnant?”

Hugh's south-of-France tan blanched. “Not a bridesmaid,” he muttered.

“Amanda?”

“No, another woman. I don't know who she is,” Hugh said in an agitated rush. “Except she's Australian and she called while I was away and left this bloody message on my voice mail. She says she's pregnant.”

Gisele threw her head, alerting Cristo that he'd unconsciously tightened his grip on the reins. He gentled the pony's skittishness with a hand on her neck, but his gaze remained fixed on the younger man's harried countenance. “Are you telling me this woman is expecting your child?”

“That is her claim, but it's absolute bollocks.”

“You said you don't know who she is.” Cristo spoke slowly, each word a clear bite of disbelief. His voice was no longer mild. “Are you saying you have never met?”

“How can I say that for sure? You know I was in Australia for almost a month earlier this year, preparing for the Hillier estate sale.”

Hugh travelled widely and often as a representative of his family's auction house, but Cristo did specifically remember the trip because of his lovelorn sister's response to her fiancé's
long absence. Amanda was a firm believer in the adage of misery loves company.

“I daresay I met hundreds of people,” Hugh continued.

“Some of them women, no doubt.”

“I didn't meet them in that way. I was pointing out that I
may
have met this woman, but I don't recall her by name. Since I asked Amanda to be my wife, I haven't looked at anyone else. Why would I risk everything that is my happiness?”

If not for his cynicism toward love and marriage, Cristo might have swallowed that ardently delivered speech. But he also subscribed to one of his stepfather's oft-quoted beliefs:
Where there's smoke, there is fire.
“Does anyone else know about this woman's claim?” he asked.

Hugh shook his head.

“You haven't told Amanda?”

“Are you serious? You know what state she is in with the wedding preparations.”

Sadly, Cristo did.

“She deserves nothing less than a perfect day. What if this woman were to turn up here, on my doorstep, the day before the wedding?”

“What are you planning to do?” Cristo asked. “Pay her off?”

Hugh blinked in astonishment, as if he'd not considered that as an option. Cristo wondered if he'd considered any options. “I don't know what to do,” he said, confirming that judgement. “I would have consulted Justin, but he's in New York patching up Harringtons' reputation. I couldn't lumber him with another problem on top of this last year, which is why I'm seeking your advice.”

Cristo had no problem with that choice and acknowledged it with a single nod. On top of his wife's death, Hugh's elder brother was dealing with an internal scandal in the American
office of his family's venerable firm. According to rumours, the fallout was not pretty.

“Why me?” Hugh shook his head with apparent bemusement. “She must have chosen me for a reason.”

Cristo could think of several billion. “Did she mention money?” he asked.

“She didn't mention much at all. She said she'd been trying to reach me for the past week. She asked if I remembered her—even spelt her name out, as if that were significant. Then she came right out with ‘I'm pregnant.'”

“She sounds like a woman who doesn't mince words.”

“She sounded like a woman who was ticked off. What should I do, Cristo? I can't risk Amanda finding out, nor can I ignore this…this…” Hugh raked a hand through his hair and expelled a broken breath. “Maybe it's a misunderstanding. Or a case of mistaken identity. Maybe I should just call her.”

“Do you have her number?”

Hugh produced a sheet of notepaper from his inside jacket pocket. For a second, Cristo watched it shake in his hand. Despite the holiday tan, he looked wan and rattled, and Cristo had to wonder at the cause. Perhaps the old love-'em-and-leave-'em Hugh Harrington—the one his brother Justin had been called on to rescue from numerous past scrapes—had come out to play on that lengthy business trip.

A world away from home, a few too many drinks, a beautiful temptress who didn't mince words…

Perhaps that explained his reluctance to confide in Amanda, or to return the woman's call. Perhaps he'd come here today acting the part of bewildered innocence, confident that Cristo would pay off the momentary blunder and make her go away. He knew that family was everything to Cristo, that he would do anything to ensure his sister's happiness.

“Are you going to call her?” Hugh asked.

“I have a trip to Australia scheduled for early in June. I can bring it forward.” Cristo made the decision on the spot, forming a plan of action as he spoke. “It would be desirable to meet this woman in person and as soon as possible. To discover exactly what she wants.”

“You'd do that for me?”

“No,” he replied tersely. “I'll do that for Amanda.”

Leaning down, he plucked the fluttering page from Hugh's hand.
Isabelle Browne,
he read. Then a telephone number and what looked like a business name. “At Your Service?” Eyes narrowed, he looked up sharply. “Is this an escort agency?”

“I have no idea. I wrote that down from her message. I gather it's a business name, but it means nothing to me.” Hugh's head came up a notch. A look of alarm pinched his expression. “You don't believe me, do you?”

“I don't
dis
believe you, but I prefer to make up my own mind.”

“By trying to find this Isabelle Browne?”

“I will find her,” Cristo corrected in a lethally low voice. “And I will discover the truth behind her allegation before I walk my sister down the aisle. If it turns out you are lying, there will be no payout, no hiding the truth and no wedding.”

“Everything I have said is the truth, Cristo, I swear.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

 

Isabelle Browne had spent twenty-four hours convincing herself she had nothing to worry about. The man who'd booked her as his housekeeper for the next week was CEO and Chairman of a private aviation firm. Any one of Chisholm Air's high-flying clients could have recommended her by name—they were precisely the sort who employed At
Your Service to make their arrangements when they visited Australia. This was not the first time she'd been handpicked. She was good—no, better than good, she was damn good—at her job.

But now he'd arrived, almost an hour early, catching her on the hop and reawakening a swarm of worries. For several seconds she closed her eyes and breathed deeply until the buzzing stopped and her hands steadied.
Just another client,
she told herself sternly,
with enough money and sense of entitlement to never accept “no” for an answer.

Feeling calmer but no less curious, Isabelle pressed nearer to the window for a better view of the man emerging from the car downstairs. Absently she turned off her iPod, pulled the buds from her ears. The dance mix had been perfect to keep her moving as she prepared the house for his arrival, but now the breezy beat seemed inappropriate. Something like the theme from
Jaws
would be more fitting.

No.

A sliver of heat pierced her belly as she watched him yawn and stretch his long limbs like a big cat in a patch of sun. Nothing as cold-blooded as a shark. Nothing grey, either. From the sun-goldened tips of his deep brown hair to the toes of his hand-tooled leather loafers, he looked right at home ambling around the forecourt of the Mediterranean-style villa. His entrance music would be Ravel…or perhaps a Latin salsa. Something rich and vibrant, thick with the sultry beat of summer. Something befitting a Roman god.

Just another client?
An ironic smile touched her lips.
She wished.

With a name like Cristiano Verón, she should have been prepared for someone slightly more exotic than your average British business tycoon. Instead she'd been distracted by the
British part, by the London address, by the coincidence of timing that brought his booking and request for Isabelle and only Isabelle right after
that
phone call to another London number.

She shook her head and reassured herself for the trillionth time.
A coincidence, Isabelle. London is a big city.

Unless Apollo downstairs gave her any reason to think otherwise, she would give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he had nothing to do with Hugh Harrington. She could remain wary without paranoia. Curious without crossing personal boundaries. Watching his arrival was okay. Eyeing his godlike derriere as he leaned into the low-slung car to retrieve his luggage, not so much.

Yet Isabelle could not wrench herself away from the window.

Her fingers curled into the plush fabric of the curtains at her side as he straightened, one modest suitcase in hand, and Isabelle caught her first glimpse of his face. Sharply slanted cheekbones, bold lips, dark aviator shades. Then he turned back to lock up the car, and she wanted more, a longer look, without the sunglasses.

As if that silent wish carried across the courtyard on the fluky autumn breeze, he paused to hook the glasses in the neckline of his chocolate brown sweater. And then he looked up, right at the window where she stood.

Isabelle took a rapid step back. Her heart raced, her backed-up breath released in an audible rush. “He couldn't have known I was watching him,” she murmured, shaking her head to clear the shimmering heat. “He couldn't have seen me.”