Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (11 page)

“I'm not happy because of all this.” She gestured widely around her, at the rows of stately town houses, the chauffeur opening the door of a Rolls Royce at number twelve, the woman emerging decked head to foot in high couture. She waved her hand at her own chain-store jeans. “Belgravia is not me, Chess.”

“Then perhaps you need a break in the country.”

“You think Chisholm Park will be anything less?”

“How do you know? Aren't you curious, just a little bit?”

“No,” Isabelle snapped. But when Chessie caught her hand and tugged, she subsided to the seat at her side. She sighed heavily. “Not a bit curious. A lot.”

Ever since he'd told her that Chisholm Park was his home, and she'd sensed his impatience to be there. That hunger to know more had been fed last night, when he'd diverted Chessie with news of Gisele and polo and she'd eaten up every scrap of information. She remembered the man in Melbourne, so pumped and fizzing with earthy vitality after a morning riding with Judd Armitage.

This was the man she hungered to know, the real man, the one who'd looked into her eyes last night and spoken with stripped-bare sincerity.

No pretence or coercion, just you and me and a dozen polo ponies.

“I am afraid,” she admitted now, “of how much I want to go. You know me, Chess. I don't do weekend romps.”

“I know, but what if it's more than that?” Chessie argued. “He's invited you to his home.”

Isabelle scoffed dismissively. She had to, to counteract the mad skitter of her heart. “It's only a weekend.”

“If that's all it is, then why not go and satisfy your curiosity? What have you got to lose?”

C
risto didn't return from places unpronounceable to seek her answer; he sent a car. According to the message delivered midafternoon in a clipped, haven't-a-second-to-waste tone by his executive assistant, he'd been delayed unavoidably. A car would collect her at 8:00 p.m. sharp.

“Like a package to be delivered,” Isabelle grumbled after the call's abrupt disconnection. “I wonder if his housekeeper will have to sign for me?”

“Probably won't need to,” Chessie replied. “Isn't his country pile quite close to the airport he uses? He might well be there when you're tossed out on the doorstep. Just waiting to unwrap you.”

He wasn't.

After spending the interminable stop-start drive on tenterhooks, trying her best not to imagine those clever hands undressing her, Isabelle was left deflated. Not because she was
looking forward to that doorstep unwrapping. She was too annoyed by his presumptuous sending of a car. She should have sent it packing; she shouldn't have been swayed by Chessie's prodding or by the whispery hopes of
what if….

What if he really did feel the same attraction, the same explosion of sunfire in every touch? What if this was more than chemistry, more than a passing intrigue?

Unfortunately, a part of her had succumbed to that notion. Just a small part, mind, because she was altogether too pragmatic to imagine that plain, ordinary, been-nowhere, done-nothing Isabelle Browne could be anything but a momentary novelty to a man like Cristo Verón. Another part of her—a hot, dangerous, newly awakened part—ached to be that passing novelty. She'd always thought ahead, made the sensible choices, gone with the unselfish options. If she was ever going to throw caution to the wind and do something just to please herself and hang the consequences, this was her chance.

It was a heady, exciting notion. She could almost hear her sister cheering her on…and that was enough to create huge trepidation. Chessie had a habit of throwing caution to the wind, and now she was dealing with the consequences.

Despite her emotions careening in every direction, somewhere along the A1 Isabelle managed to doze off. She missed the anticipated rush of seeing Chisholm Park for the first time, which only added to the disappointment of being met by the housekeeper. Meredith, a tall, stylish redhead who didn't wear a uniform, told her that Cristo would not be home for hours yet. There followed a quick tour of the house, peppered by directions of “this room is” and “over there you'll find” that Isabelle was too unfocussed to take aboard.

After Isabelle declined the offer of supper, tea or anything from the kitchen, Meredith prepared to leave. “Cristo said you
should make yourself at home. Do you remember where everything is? The kitchen and the library and his sitting room with the big-screen tele?”

Isabelle said yes, she remembered, since she had no intention of exploring the endless corridors or of sitting up to welcome him home. Unsure whether she would stay, she didn't unpack. She took her time preparing for bed; she imagined she would still be tossing and turning long after eleven. But after a cursory round of tosses and turns, she surrendered to the thick embrace of her down duvet and slept dreamlessly until after six. For the first time in weeks she felt deeply rested and ready to face the day. Outside birds chattered with early morning industry, but the house slept on. She hurried down two flights of stairs and out the front door without drawing breath. She craved her morning walk, her thinking time, before she faced any conversation or decisions.

It was a splendid morning for walking. In the splintered sunlight of the tree-lined driveway, the air was shivery cool despite her sweater and jeans and she set off at a brisk pace, her mind only on the task of exercise. But soon it grew impossible to ignore the birdcalls, and the drumming vibration of an unseen woodpecker slowed her pace as she skimmed the treetops in a vain attempt to locate the creature. As her view widened, she was captured by a cluster of horses, sleek and glossy beneath the clear sky, and as she continued to turn in a slow circle the house came into view and her eyes boggled.

If she'd thought the Belgravia town house was something, then this was something else.

Three storeys of red-brick stateliness stood like a rosy castle amid endless acres of verdant parkland.

“Chisholm Park indeed,” she murmured as she scanned the sweeps of grass broken by uncontrived plantings of leafy
herbage and trees. Oaks and beeches and ashes—and, over to the west, beyond a dense wooded thicket, she caught the gleam of sunlight on water.

Intrigued, she turned off the driveway and cut across an open field, her stride lengthening as she followed the downhill slope until she found a better vantage point for what turned out to be a small lake. It was picture perfect, a movie set, beyond anything she'd imagined.

Seeking a closer view, she continued on, following a pathway until the ground levelled out. She paused when she heard the distant sound of galloping hooves. Curious, she changed direction through a wooded grove and exited onto a closely mown field where a trio of horses and riders raced in hot pursuit of a polo ball. She recognised it from the one Cristo had rolled across the desk. She recognised Cristo in the same heartbeat, despite the face-shadowing helmet. In white breeches and long tan boots, he manoeuvred his shiny black steed to overtake the others with languid ease.

Isabelle was riveted.

Yes, she'd seen him at polo practice before—she'd commented on his prowess at the Mornington restaurant—but that day she had watched from a distance. She'd not been close enough to feel the ground reverberate beneath thundering hooves, to smell the earthy mix of horse and turf, to hear the urgent calls that signalled the next play. Today she'd wandered right onto the edge of the action, and she watched transfixed as the threesome powered by. Cristo led the charge at breakneck speed, and when he leaned precariously low over the horse's side, her breath caught in alarm.

But with effortless skill he swung the stick in a smooth arc and smacked the ball beneath his horse's neck and out of the others' reach.

They wheeled to follow, and Isabelle's heart resumed beating with renewed exhilaration. Grinning widely, she lifted her hands to applaud and then realised that the ball was rocketing across the grass toward her. She didn't want to interrupt their practice; she would have scooted back into the shelter of the trees, but then Cristo spotted her.

His head came up, a new alertness in his posture, and Isabelle knew his gaze had locked on her. She felt the ripple of awareness down her spine, the jump of her pulse, the curl of honeyed heat in her stomach, and she couldn't move. With an infinitesimal lift of his hands, he slowed his horse, and she heard him call the others to stop play.

The ball's pace slowed on the thicker outer grass, and Isabelle's heart thumped hard as she threw caution to the wind and took a decisive step to meet it. Intent on her rash purpose—would she roll it back or hand it to him?—she didn't notice the approaching horse until it cut through her path. The mallet's powerful swing was so near she felt the shift of air in its wake.

As she jumped out of harm's way, the rider lifted her head, and she recognised the venomous smirk of crimson lips. Madeleine. She recoiled reflexively, the punch of shock driving all the breath and heat and exhilaration from her body. Vaguely she registered the cold bark of anger in Cristo's voice as he called Madeleine to task, and then he was cantering toward her and vaulting from the saddle and striding to her side.

She was pretty sure he would have wrapped her in his arms if she'd not taken an evasive step and held up both hands to ward him off. She didn't want cosseting, and she didn't need his soothing sounds of concern. “I'm fine,” she assured him, her voice brittle with sudden anger. “Obviously she needs the practice. Her shot was way off.”

He cursed, or at least that's what she gathered. The word was foreign—she was going on tone and the way he ripped off his helmet and glove and tossed them the way of his mallet. Helmet hair, she noted snippily, but then he raked a hair through the flattened crown and turned his fierce gaze on her and for a moment her synapses tied themselves in knots. Which, when she started to think again, only made her madder.

“I'm going to resume my walk now. Is it safe to continue this way—” she indicated the path along the side of the field “—or should I go back the way I came?”

“I'll walk with you,” he said.

“Protection? Is that necessary?”

She started to move away, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, turning her back toward him. She felt like slapping the hand away, but beyond his broad shoulders she could see the two horses, two riders, waiting and watching. She was not about to give Madeleine and friend the benefit of front-row seats to any display of disillusioned fury.

“You had a right to be angry, even before Madeleine's stunt,” he said. “I meant what I said about this weekend. I didn't invite her here.”

“You don't owe me any explanation,” she said tightly.

“Yes, I do.” Cupping both shoulders, he held her steady. Forced her to meet his gaze. “Madeleine is playing in a charity tournament tomorrow. This morning she discovered that one of her ponies is lame. She needs a replacement.”

“And she thought of you.”

“She thought of me, the team sponsor, who she knows is not playing tomorrow and will therefore have spare ponies.”

Oh.
She swallowed. “Why aren't you playing?” she couldn't resist asking.

“I have other plans.”

Those other plans pulsed between them for a long moment, and Isabelle felt a change in his grip, saw a new tension in the set of his jaw. He was waiting for her to object, to tell him that her plans had suddenly changed, and three seconds ago he would have been right on the money. But now…“You were going to play?” she asked, needing to know for sure. “Until these other plans came along?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't have to do that on my account. I might have enjoyed a day at the polo.”

“With Madeleine playing?” he asked dryly. “Not a good idea.”

“She wasn't meaning to run me down.” The ache of conflict eased from her chest and suddenly she felt magnanimous, even toward Madeleine. “She knew there was room to spare.”

Again his grip tightened and so did the corners of his mouth. “Whatever she meant, it was a foolhardy stunt. I shouldn't have let her onto the field this morning. She was already in a snit.”

“Because you're not playing tomorrow?” she guessed.

“Because of my replacement,” he corrected.

“Is there someone else she dislikes as much as me, or is it because the stand-in is not as good a player?”

He laughed, the sound unexpected and acutely sexy. “My replacement is the great Alejandro Verón. He is a ten-goal player.”

“This is better than you?”

“That's as good as it gets,” he said. “My brother is a professional. I don't play nearly enough to approach his standard.”

He spoke as a matter of fact, not arrogant, just supremely confident that with sufficient games he too would be one of the best. Isabelle wondered if there was anything he didn't do supremely well. A shiver danced through her, and when his
gaze narrowed intently and the tenor of his grip changed, she knew he'd sensed it, seen it…For whatever reason, he knew. Perhaps it glowed like an aura of lust around her.

It was too much, too soon, and she flicked her gaze toward his horse. Still standing, obediently still, where he'd been abandoned, except…“Is your horse supposed to be eating your glove?” she asked slowly.

Amusement glimmered in his eyes as they flicked over the horse and then returned to her face. “Perhaps he is hungry. Have
you
eaten, Isabelle?”

Her stomach had bottomed out. Hunger, yes, although not only for food. “Not yet.”

“Let's return to the stables, and then I will treat you to the best breakfast in the home counties.”

 

The village pub was only a couple of kilometres across country. They could have walked, and another day they would, but by the time they'd finished up at the stables and he'd showered and changed, Cristo was starving. He grabbed Isabelle's hand and tugged her toward the garage. When she caught sight of the array of vehicles, he had to tug even harder.

“Are these all yours?” she asked. It was the same question and the same awed expression as when she'd walked into the stables and clocked all the heads poking out into the central alley.

“Not this time.” He towed her toward his Aston and popped the doors. “This one's mine. The rest were Alistair's. They're Amanda's now. She hasn't the heart to sell them.”

When he gunned the car down the drive, he spied Isabelle stroking the leather seat and that brought out a satisfied grin. “It does that, doesn't it?”

Their eyes met and shared the moment, the purr of the powerful engine, the warmth of a perfect May morning, the
silent promise of the weekend ahead. He reached for her hand, felt the rocket of response from that simple touch. “I'm glad you came,” he said.