Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (12 page)

“And if I hadn't?”

“I would have driven to London. I would have changed your mind.”

 

Breakfast was in the restaurant attached to a quaint village pub that was full of old English charm and customers. Unsurprising, really, given the breakfast was as good as Cristo had promised. They ate and they talked, picking up the conversation started on the short drive.

Isabelle discovered more about Chisholm Park, including how Alistair had bought the place as a failed means of keeping Vivi happy. He'd renovated extensively, adding stables for horse-mad Cristo and a poolhouse for Amanda and the lake for his wife. “And for himself?” Isabelle asked.

“He chose this location convenient to the headquarters of Chisholm Air. When marriage failed him, the business he loved did not.”

She learned more about the business, casual information interspersed with telling observations that suggested Cristo had inherited his stepfather's love of Chisholm Air along with his chairmanship and stock holdings. Isabelle's mood was a peculiar mix of comfort from the easy conversation and gathering despair because every anecdote reinforced the disparity in their positions and their beliefs.

His cynicism toward love and marriage and his attitude to business do not matter, she reminded herself.
This is make-believe. Just enjoy the moment.

A neighbour stopped by their table and asked about the prospects of the Chisholm Hawks in tomorrow's tournament.
Briefly they analysed the competition, expert opinion maintaining that if Cristo's brother was in form, the Hawks would win with several goals to spare. “See you tomorrow, then,” Will said, “and you, Isabelle.”

“I hope so.” She returned his hearty smile, then watched him leave.

“I trust you were only being polite.”

“Yes…and no.” Isabelle worried at her bottom lip. “Look, I know you're not playing and that was on my behalf, but from what Will said, this Sovereign's Plate tournament is a big deal, and your brother's appearance even more so.”

“I can see A.J. anytime,” he said with an offhand shrug, but there was nothing casual in the banked heat of his gaze when it lifted from her mouth to her eyes. “Unless there is a reason you want to go to tomorrow's game?”

“Other than meeting your brother?”

“You don't want to meet him.”

“Why ever not?” Isabelle asked, her curiosity piqued. “Are you alike?”

“I'm told there is a resemblance, but only in appearance. I am the good brother,” he said, an edge of humour sparking his dark eyes.

“And Alejandro is bad?”

“The worst.”

“Is this why I don't want to meet him?”

“This is why I do not want you to meet him,” he said, and the possessiveness of that statement caused a delicious tightening in her stomach. A heaviness in her breasts. And the certainty that this brother—the good one—could make her feel very, very bad. “Nor do I intend sharing you with every inquisitive neighbour who stops by.”

“Isn't that what you wanted me for at the gala?”

“Unless you want me to remind you exactly what I want—” again those eyes glittered, again her body tightened “—with half of Herting Green leaning sideways in their chairs to eavesdrop, I suggest we get out of here.”

“Will you tell me, then?”

“Better than that, Isabelle. I will show you.”

H
e showed her with a steamy kiss the instant they were cocooned in the privacy of his car. It was hot and open-mouthed, a kiss packed with carnal intent and controlled aggression, the kiss they'd started in the backseat of the limo turned up another ten notches.

It was exactly what Isabelle needed to wipe her mind free of the nagging what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here? doubts that had resurfaced while he settled the bill.

Closing her eyes to the late-morning brightness, she surrendered instantly, completely, absorbing the scent of leather and man, the enticing pressure of his thumbs at the corners of her mouth, the strong taste of coffee on his tongue. She'd given up the brew, fearing her reliance, and now she knew the taste would be forever etched in this long, hot tangle of mouths and the shudder of longing deep in her core.

When he finally broke away, the passion of their embrace
throbbed in the overheated air and in the dark smoulder of his eyes. “Home?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Two words, their first since he'd ushered her from the restaurant, and perfectly enough. He strapped their seat belts and started the engine, and the Aston's bark of response echoed through her blood. Pulling out of the car park, they had to wait for an elderly lady to pass. Cristo's fingers drummed an impatient beat on the steering wheel. Isabelle wondered if her need was as nakedly apparent.

Across the street, a family exited the village store, two children intent on ice creams, their mother on talking a toddler down from a tantrum. A normal day, with people going about their Saturday morning activities, while she was being whisked back to a country estate in a midnight-blue Aston Martin by a polo-playing millionaire.

That should have freaked her out, but she felt unusually confident. She also knew that her emotions could quickly cartwheel out of control, especially if she allowed herself to think. “Do you have music?” she asked.

He flicked…something…and the seductive rhythms of Ravel filled the silence.

She smiled at the choice, and when he lifted an enquiring brow, she told him how she'd imagined his entrance music as Ravel the day he arrived in Melbourne. “Not ‘La Valse,'” she added, recognising the obsessive darkness in this piece. “Something smoother.”

“I saw you dancing that day,” he said. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Past one of the windows. You were not what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Superficial beauty…the kind that used to attract Hugh.”

“I didn't strike you as Hugh's type?”

“No.” Briefly his glance left the road, caught on hers. “You struck me as mine.”

Then he reached for her hand, brought it to his thigh, and the hard muscle shifting with every gear change honed her desire to a sharp edge. She wanted both hands on him without the denim barrier—without any barrier—and she wanted his hands on her and his undiverted gaze when she asked him to tell her again.

You struck me as mine.

She'd been achingly aware of him, of his eyes following her as she'd shown him around the house, but she'd never allowed herself to believe it was personal. That he might be drawn to her despite her ugly grey uniform. But when he turned off the engine in the garage and unbuckled his belt and then hers, perhaps he saw the hint of wonder in her eyes because he paused and his expression narrowed.

“You are not having second thoughts,” he said. No question, a statement of fact.

“No.” Isabelle swallowed, unaccountably nervous despite the certainty of her response. “Although now might be a very good time to remind me of what you want.”

“In words?”

“That would depend on the words.”

“Indeed,” he said slowly, drawing the word out and studying her with enough erotic speculation to burn the clothes from her body. Words did not matter when he looked at her that way, or when he turned an ordinary word into a thing of honeyed beauty with his clever tongue.

All the way from garage to bedroom he put that tongue to wicked purpose, telling her in rich, raw detail exactly what he wanted to do with her, to her, in her. Halfway up the stairs, he paused to study her feverish face. “Hot?” he asked.

She managed a strangled
hmm
of assent, so he peeled away her sweater and camisole in one smooth motion. The glancing heat of his hands against her skin almost brought her to her knees. The flare of his nostrils as he studied the swollen rise of her breasts did cause her thighs to tremble. She might have melted right there, a pool of undone woman on the ornate staircase, if he'd not scooped her up in his arms.

It was so unexpected that she released a breath of surprised laughter. “You didn't mention your need to carry me.”

“Humour me.”

“Happy to.”

He'd reached the landing and paused, his expression all male satisfaction as he looked into her face. “On all counts?”

The detail of his very specific requests burned hot in her skin, but her female parts danced with unembarrassed excitement. She smiled, a softly wanton curve of her lips that caused Cristo's nostrils to flare and his eyes to glitter with piercing heat. “Are we starting with the staircase?” she asked.

“We are starting in my bed.”

“And finishing where?”

“Paradise.”

She laughed, an earthy ripple of sound that stroked every massively aroused cell in Cristo's body. He felt like he'd been hard for hours, days, weeks. He felt like he could remain so, riding this crest of desire until he could no longer stand, until there were no ways left to have her. One weekend was too finite, too short, and the thought tore at his patience.

He shouldered open the door to his suite, kicked it shut behind them, and the solid thud shut down the clamour for instant gratification. He did not want quick, not this first time. He wanted it exactly as he'd spelled out on the stairs.

Slow. Deep. Thorough.

He turned to lower her against the door, holding her upright between the hard throb of his body and the thick slab of timber. He kissed her with the laughter fresh on her lips, lost himself in the sweet passion of her mouth and then in the torturous ache of her hands on his skin. They'd burrowed beneath his shirt to skim his back, his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, but it was not enough.

“Pull it off,” he breathed between kisses, and when she'd dispensed with his shirt the spill of her breasts from low-cut lace burned against his chest. He held her higher, enough that he could lick at the swell of flesh and tug the engorged nipple between his teeth. She cried out, a tortured pant of wanting, and he obliged, dedicating himself to each breast in turn until she writhed beneath him.

He needed skin against skin.

Dios,
he ached to be inside her.

She hooked arms and legs around him as he carried her to the bed, as he pulled back and discarded the covers and took her down onto the cool sheets. He reared back, enough to strip her of bra and jeans and underpants, enough to dispense of his, and then they came together in a crackle of lust. The perfection of her softly rounded body, the mix of vanilla sweetness and earthy spices, the throaty gasp of his name on her lips when his fingers delved between her legs—everything about her drove him crazy with greed. He could not kiss her in enough places, caress her long enough, when all he wanted was everything at once.

When she took him in her hands, her touch was a contradictory mix of boldness and explorative innocence that snapped his restraint. He pressed a long, hot kiss to her mouth, to each breast, to the feminine curve of her belly, and then he rolled away to don protection. She arched up to meet his
return, and he linked their hands and stretched them high above their heads as he lowered himself between her thighs and sunk into her welcoming heat.

“Look at me,” he said thickly, compelling Isabelle's gaze back to his as he slid deeper and started to move in a slow, rolling pace that sealed their connection and rocked against every sweet spot. He maintained that deep eye contact when he took her mouth, when he kissed her with the same sensual rhythm, and when she arched her back with the first shuddering grasp of her climax, he could no longer control his response.

The tension gathered in every muscle, coiled around the base of his spine, and her fingers clung tightly to his as his synapses snapped with the powerful surge of his release.

 

Isabelle hated the aftermath of sex. She didn't know how to act, what to say, whether to speak at all. To her inexperienced mind, there seemed dangers at every turn, when the mind turned mushy with lust suddenly clicked back to clarity and thought,
Uh-oh. Was I too wanton, too passive, too needy? Should I ask after the nail marks in his hand, offer to apply Band-Aids if I broke the skin? Is it better to take my cue from him, or to be proactive and ask what happens next?

And that was without the practical aspects of retrieving clothes strewn from here to midday.

God, she'd let him strip her on the stairs.

The thought of Meredith finding her things on the staircase caused her to jackknife upright. Cristo hadn't said anything since returning from the bathroom; she'd wondered if he might be asleep, but she felt the weight of his hand on her back, the gliding touch of his fingertips against her shoulder blade. “What is it?” he asked. His voice sounded heavy with a yawn, and that very human sign gave her the courage to turn and meet his gaze.

“I just remembered my clothes are on the stairs,” she admitted.

The mild enquiry in his eyes turned warmly teasing. “And your tidy housekeeper's mind is offended?”

“I was thinking more of your housekeeper, actually. I don't want her picking up after me or thinking…”

“That you're spending the day in bed with me? I'm sure Meredith wouldn't give that a second thought.”

Because she's used to it?
Isabelle wanted to ask, but didn't. Afraid the miserable jab of jealousy might show in her face, she looked away. “I would rather she didn't find them,” she said stiffly, “that's all.”

The weight of his hand shifted, its pressure encouraging her to relax back into the pillows. She resisted, waiting for his response. “Unless you leave them there until Monday,” he said, “none of my staff will find them.”

“Don't they work on the weekends?”

“Not this one. I told you, Isabelle,” he continued when her gaze shifted back to his, “I planned for these days to be just us.”

He hadn't wanted any staff on duty. Because of all the places he wanted to strip her? To have her? Heat bloomed beneath her skin at the memory of his incendiary words, of each and every steamy promise. “Were you that confident?”

“No,” he replied, but his expression, his posture, his satisfied smile were all supremely confident. “I was more…hopeful.”

“Did your hopefulness extend to us ending up here in your bed after you took me to breakfast?”

“This has pretty much ruined my plans for today.”

Teasing, Isabelle knew, so she took no umbrage. “What had you planned?”

“A long drive.”

“To show me the sites of Hertfordshire?”

“To have you to myself, to let the Aston work its magic.
For sightseeing, nothing beats a helicopter,” he added, “especially when you take along a picnic and put down wherever takes your fancy.”

“That was quite a day you had planned,” Isabelle said, impressed despite herself.

“I thought I would have my work cut out,” he admitted, and although his tone maintained the lightness of the preceding banter, there was something in his gaze that coiled tight in Isabelle's stomach. Then he grinned, a ridiculously sexy and satisfied smile that belied any question of doubt. “For you, Isabelle, I had planned a serious day of wooing.”

Wooing. It was such a delightfully old-fashioned word and such a romantic notion that Isabelle couldn't help being charmed. She would not allow the tender loop of warmth to take hold, however, because it was only a word…a word wrapped up in that cockiest of grins. His plan had been to woo her into his bed, not to romance her, and for that he'd needed no fancy props. He'd only needed the beguiling directness of his tongue.

“You don't have to impress me with grand gestures,” she said, “or with your expensive toys.”

“Not even the helicopter?”

“Not even.”

“I see.” The tilt of his smile shifted from cocky to unholy as his hand drifted from her shoulders to the small of her back. “In that case, I shall have to impress you in other ways.”

“Will this involve us leaving this bed?”

His fingertips traced the curve of her buttocks. A languid, tantalising signal of intent. “Not for a very long time.”

 

“Stay,” Chessie implored on Monday morning. “There is no reason not to.”

Only guilt, Isabelle thought, because when Cristo sug
gested that she stay on at Chisholm Park until the wedding, her acceptance had come easily and without any consideration for her sister's plight. Perhaps because he'd asked while looking deep into her eyes and filling her just as deeply with the heavy heat of his desire.