Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (10 page)

Then his hands took possession, pulling her onto his lap, drawing her tight against the hard heat of his body. It was shockingly raw and primal, his hands on her thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of her invisible knickers as he licked into her mouth. She shifted in his lap, finding a better angle for the kiss and a closer contact with the hard proof of his desire.

Lost in the potency of the moment, she forgot time, place, propriety, the thousand cautions she'd issued herself over the
past days. She was greedy for more, for her hands on more than his shirt, more than his throat and his face. She wanted to feel his heat without barriers. She was too close, not close enough. She itched with the craziness of need, and when he swore softly the foreign word, his exasperation, the exhalation of breath hot against her skin, only inflamed her more. She turned in his lap, hands on his shirt buttons, her laugh a husky reflection of her impatience until she realised that he'd gone still and why he'd sworn.

His hands were no longer on her thighs but restraining her hands. The car was stationary, not as part of the slow crawl home through London traffic but because they had arrived at Wentworth Square. And someone was knocking at the car window.

Calmly Cristo shifted her to the seat beside him and straightened her dress, but when he opened the window he took her hand in a reassuring grip. She sucked in a deep breath, the world stopped spinning and the dark figure outside materialised into Crash's craggy features.

“This had better be good,” Cristo said darkly.

“Hugh called,” the butler replied shortly. “From Farnbo-rough.”

Pressed close against his side, Isabelle felt his muscles tense as his irritation with the interruption turned to instant alertness. “I thought he wasn't due back until the weekend.”

“Apparently he called Amanda last night, and she mentioned Isabelle.”

“Of course she did.”

“He's on his way here now. I thought you should know.”

Isabelle hadn't thought that anything could wipe that kiss so quickly from her mind. This news had managed the impos
sible. Uncaring about her kissed-clean lips and mussed hair, she leaned forward into view. “Does Chessie know?”

“She was in the room when the call came in. She's waiting in the library.”

 

Waiting for Hugh's arrival was torture. A diplomatic Crash suggested that she might like to “freshen up,” but she shook her head. Nobody cared if her ridiculously expensive dress was slightly crumpled, her feet bare, her hair and makeup ravaged. Chessie hadn't even noticed, a sure indication that despite her outward signs of preparedness and her assurances that she was more than ready for this meeting, her sister was jangling with nerves.

Isabelle forced her to sit and practice her breathing. “It's never too early,” she said, taking her sister's hand and demonstrating with a couple of exaggerated Lamaze-inspired breaths. Chessie laughed and almost relaxed until they heard someone outside the door and her grip turned almost punishing with sudden tension.

But it was only Crash bringing them tea, and a few minutes later Cristo returned from the male version of freshening up, which meant he no longer looked as though he'd been run over by a wildly turned-on woman. He'd changed into jeans and a light sweater. His eyes found Isabelle's right away, steady, questioning, and she nodded a silent answer.
We're good.
And she realised with a warm settling of her own nerves that this wasn't a platitude, that with the calming strength of his presence they would get through this.

He took a chair opposite and distracted them both by asking Chessie about her visit to the National Gallery and then updating them on his horse Gisele's improving health. He was so easy to listen to, so easy to watch as he explained the ru
diments of polo to Chessie with words and hands and a stray ball he found on the desk. Chessie relaxed enough to ask questions, to laugh at his answers, although every so often her gaze flicked to the window overlooking the street.

When the doorbell rang, she lifted an inch off the sofa. “He's here.”

Her words were superfluous—who else would be calling after midnight?—and barely audible despite the sudden silence. Cristo stood, his tension marked in the rigid set of his jaw and the flexing of his hands into fists. She wondered if that was merely an easing of tension or a sign of intent, but she could not feel any alarm on Hugh Harrington's part. He deserved whatever was coming.

In the hallway outside they heard voices, Crash's and another, but when Isabelle reached for Chessie's hand, her sister shook her head. “I'm good,” she said. “I can do this.”

When the door opened and Crash stepped back to usher in the new arrival, Isabelle's eyes remained on Chessie's face. She saw her sister's slight recoil, the small shake of her head as she looked from Hugh to Crash to Cristo. He was the first to speak, his voice as hard and dark as the ebony timber that dominated the room.

“Hugh,” he said. “I'm glad you saw fit to return home and face the music.”

“No.” Chessie was still shaking her head as she looked from one man to the other. “What's going on? This is not Harry.”

C
risto watched the bewilderment on every face following Francesca's declaration and Hugh's equally adamant avowal that he was, as recently as one hour ago when his passport was last checked, Hugh Harrington. When Francesca argued that point, Hugh reached into an inside pocket and produced the document, which Chessie refused to look at.

“Are you Isabelle Browne?” Hugh asked, and Cristo had to step in and referee the confused melee of answers. Finally he managed to explain, to everyone's satisfaction, the story of the sister swap in Melbourne.

“I am the pregnant one,” Francesca reiterated in case anyone was still in doubt. “But you are not my Harry.”

“No, I'm not,” Hugh said thoughtfully, and then he laughed softly with what sounded like wonderment. “I'll be damned.”

“What?” Cristo asked at the same time as Isabelle.

“I am
a
Harry,” Hugh replied, and Cristo went still.

“Justin?” he asked sharply.

Hugh nodded. “He flew to Melbourne for the auction.”

“He stayed at this client's house?”

“Just for one night.”

“Apparently that was enough,” Cristo murmured.

“Who are you talking about?” Isabelle stepped forward, her forehead creased in confusion. She placed her hand on Cristo's arm and instantly had his attention. “Are there other Harrys?”

“Justin is Hugh's elder brother. I didn't know they shared the nickname. It didn't cross my mind that it could be Justin.”

“I'll say.” Hugh still looked bemused. “Would never have picked it.”

“Why not?” Francesca asked into the beat of pause that followed this announcement. “Please don't tell me he is married or engaged or a serial—”

“No,” Hugh cut in. “Justin isn't married, at least not anymore.”

 

Under a barrage of questions, the story finally came together. Hugh had been Harringtons' man in situ in Australia back in January, doing the groundwork for a major estate sale. Justin arrived to oversee the auction before flying back to New York. According to Hugh, that encapsulated his brother's life since the death of his wife last summer—constant travel, little sleep, working like an automaton. Which is why it had never crossed his mind that Justin could be the “Harry” Francesca sought.

Yes, they'd both been dubbed Harry at school, as had their father and grandfather and all Harrington men since time immemorial, but the nickname hadn't stuck to Justin. Cristo understood why. Unlike his younger brother, Justin Harrington had never been one of the party-hard players around town. He'd always been serious—not a Harry but a Lord Justin Har
rington, viscount and future earl, head of a traditional and ultra-conservative family business.

And, according to Hugh, he'd become a complete social hermit since Leesa's tragic boating accident. “To the best of my knowledge, he has not even casually dated,” he confided to Cristo. “Must say I'm somewhat flummoxed by this evidence to the contrary. Do you think Chessie is on the up-and-up?”

“Do you think I would have brought her here from Australia and put her up in my home if I didn't?”

“From what Amanda says, I thought that might have more to do with the sister.”

Cristo didn't give him the benefit of an answer. It didn't matter what any of them thought; the truth would be determined by Justin. Crash had turned up an auction brochure bearing his picture, and Francesca identified him with a conclusive nod before tapping a finger against the advertised sale date. “Is he in New York for this?”

“Not only for the auction,” Hugh replied. “A key executive resigned early this year. Left the Manhattan office in a bit of a jumble.”

“Is he expected home soon?”

“For the wedding. But with the Carmichael sale only days before, there's some doubt he'll even make the rehearsal. Your best bet would be to call him, although I wonder…” Harry ruminated for several seconds, his expression turning from thoughtful to diffident. “I wonder if you would mind terribly much if we kept this under our hats, as it were, until after the wedding. Justin is my best man, and I would rather he were at my side than dashing you off to Vegas.”

“That is not going to happen,” Francesca said with feeling.

“Then I beg you not to break this news to my family before the wedding.”

“Will they run me out of town?” she asked. “Or force me to the altar with a shotgun?”

Hugh reassured her that neither would be the case, although they might expect a wedding before the baby. “Rather old-fashioned in that regard,” he said, “but you've nothing to fear. Justin will insist on doing the responsible thing. That's why I'm concerned about telling him now, you see. It's not only the wedding—this Carmichael sale is crucial to Harringtons' reputation in America. Your news would prove somewhat of a distraction, I'm afraid.”

“Another two weeks won't make any difference to me,” Francesca replied, “except we may have overstayed our welcome here.”

“Not at all,” Cristo assured her evenly. “You should not feel pressured to rush yourself from under my roof or to accept Hugh's request for a delay. I can fly you to New York.”

“Thank you, but I don't want to turn this into a chase around the world. I can wait until after the wedding.” She rested a hand on her belly. “I have months of patience left.”

Isabelle attempted to argue, but Francesca's mind was made up. Pleading tiredness, she excused herself and went upstairs, her stormy-faced sister at her side. A satisfied Harry left soon after, but Cristo was neither satisfied nor ready to retire. He had a feeling Isabelle would return—she would want to pursue this new development, to know where she and Francesca stood—and he did not have long to wait for her knock at the door.

“Can I pour you a cognac?” he asked, ushering her across the room to the massive ebony desk where Crash had left a
tray bearing bottle and glasses. She looked pale, agitated, in need of both a drink and reassurance.

“Does it help?”

“It certainly doesn't hurt.” When he passed her the glass, their fingers brushed and a frisson of heated memory flickered across her face. Cristo's body stirred in response, but he said nothing; this was not the time. Leaning back against the desk, he watched her take a tentative sip. Accepted her murmured thanks.

“Not only for the drink,” she added, swirling the golden liquid for a second before taking a visible grip of her fretfulness. “You were very fair, offering Chessie the opportunity to go to New York.”

“Did you manage to change her mind?”

She laughed ruefully and shook her head. “I'm afraid I have never had much success on that score.”

“Tonight must have been quite a shock for her. Perhaps she needs the extra time to adjust to this turn of events. To allow this new picture of her baby's father to take shape.”

“Can I ask…” She turned her glass a slow, measured circle within her hands and inhaled deeply. “Is he everything Hugh suggested?”

“Justin is a decent man, highly thought of, honourable. Francesca and her baby are in good hands.”

She took her time digesting that, but gradually the storm in her eyes settled as if she'd accepted his judgement. A small thing, Cristo told himself, to produce such inordinate pleasure. “You must be happy with how this has turned out,” she said. “Given the alternative.”

Oddly, he hadn't given any consideration to what had been averted. Not until now. The ramifications for Amanda and Hugh were huge, and that realisation ramped his pleasure to
a new level and brought a smile to his lips. “This drink should be a celebration.” He leaned closer, touched his glass to hers. “To satisfactory solutions.”

“And happy endings,” she added, “for everyone.”

Cristo toasted that, but she must have noticed the unspoken cynicism in his salute because her gaze drifted away and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth faltered. She sipped at her drink, swallowed, swirled, before her gaze lifted again to his. “What now?” she asked. “How are we to keep this secret until after the wedding? Amanda is so…”

“Nosy?”

“She is curious because she cares about you and she thinks we are a couple. She invited me to lunch next week. She pressed me to commit to a day, and she asked if I was coming to her wedding. I can't keep lying to her, and if she meets Chessie and notices she is pregnant…I can't keep up this pretence for two weeks, Cristo. I think it would be best if we went to stay somewhere else.”

“I agree,” he said mildly, and she blinked in surprise. He could think of nothing better than taking her somewhere else, a place with no Amanda, no Francesca, no Harrys of any variety. “I was wanting to spend this weekend at Chisholm Park. You will come with me,” he decided. Not the perfect solution, but one Cristo could warm to…especially if he could ensure they were left alone.

“But won't that defeat the purpose?”

“The purpose being?”

“To avoid Amanda's attempts to embrace me into your family. I was thinking Chessie and I should go somewhere remote—a hotel or a B and B.”

“Somewhere I'm not?” he challenged. “Is that more to the point, Isabelle?”

“No,” she retorted quickly. “I was only questioning whether Amanda and your mother and the bridal party would be descending on your family home for the wedding.”

“Thankfully, no. Our village church wouldn't accommodate the masses, so the wedding is in Sussex, near the Harrington estate. I can assure you that the wedding party will be heading south from London, in the opposite direction to us.”

She'd been playing with her drink again, turning the glass within her hands, but they stilled on the last word. Her gaze lifted to his. “Does
us
include Chessie?”

“She is welcome,” he replied. “Although earlier she mentioned how much she is enjoying London and the galleries.”

“Her idea of heaven.”

“Then perhaps she would prefer to stay here.”

She took less than a second to catch on, for her shoulders to straighten. “You would prefer her to stay here. Be honest—that is what you are really saying, isn't it?”

“I would prefer you to myself, Isabelle, with no interruptions.”

His voice slowed and deepened, his message clearly reflected in her eyes. Suddenly they were back in the car, his hands on her thighs, hers fumbling with his buttons, their breathing hot and impatient. But when he signalled his intent to act, putting down his glass with a decisive thunk and shifting his body weight to his feet, she backed away. Just a few steps before she changed course, circling around to put the huge desk between them.

From that position of safety, she levelled him a steady gaze. “What are you proposing?”

“A weekend in the country, no pretence or coercion, just you and me and a dozen polo ponies. As to what else…” Without losing eye contact, he reached down and snagged the polo ball from the desk. He rolled it slowly across the impres
sive breadth of timber and into her hands. “That ball is yours to play, Isabelle. I'm in your hands.”

 

“I don't need you as a babysitter, and you know it. You're using me as an excuse,” Chessie accused after hearing of last night's invitation. Isabelle had badgered her sister into accompanying her on a morning walk—not Chessie's favourite activity—to talk about her reaction to “Harry's” surprise identity. But within a block Chessie had hijacked the conversation and turned the walk into a stroll. Feigning fatigue, she sunk to a bench in the centre of the square and narrowed her perceptive eyes on Isabelle's still-standing figure. “You're afraid of what might happen. A whole weekend alone with the delicious Cristo. You are such a chicken.”

“You're a fine one to talk about cowardice,” Isabelle countered hotly. She couldn't sit; she itched with the need to keep walking, to clear her woolly head after a sleepless night. To feel like her normal, sensible self again. “You could have gone to New York. You've already flown halfway around the world to find this man.”

“And what I found out last night is enough for now. Give me a week to digest all that….”

“A week? Your decisions usually take less than a second.”

“Usually I'm not considering anything more important than blue dress or skinny jeans.” Chessie's eyes held hers, her expression serious for at least a second before she gave a rueful shrug. “Course, in a few days I'll probably wish I had taken up Cristo's generous offer, but for now I'm happy with my choice. You, on the other hand, are not.”

Trust her little sister to see right through her restless irritability. Last night Cristo hadn't accepted what he called her knee-jerk answer. Initially that had revolved around her em
ployment contract—how could she go away for a weekend when her job was to keep Chessie and Amanda apart?

He'd responded by giving her the weekend off and suggesting she sleep on it—ha!—and he would ask again when he returned from wherever he'd flown today. He'd told her where, but the name was unfamiliar and possibly unspellable. Yet another sign, she'd reasoned during the hours she'd lain awake and then paced her spacious bedroom, of the disparity in their lifestyles. Yet another reason to resist this mad attraction.