Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (15 page)

“They were my uniform, that's all. I don't need them anymore.”

“Nor do I.”

Now he was done, Cristo stood back from the evidence of his panicked petulance and wanted to kick himself. Isabelle turned away again, but not before he'd seen the shimmer of moisture in her eyes.
Dios,
he was a dolt. He'd acted like a child deprived of his favourite toy, but he would not see her cry. She started to pick up the mess of his doing, and his jaw set with a new resolve.

“Leave them,” he said, and when she kept on tidying he forced her away from the clothes and the bed. Feeling her tense up beneath his hands, seeing the trapped look on her face as she slapped at his hands, was too much to bear. He pulled her tightly held body close against his and wrapped her in his arms. “Forgive me,” he murmured against her ear. “You are right. I did not want to hear you say no. I wanted to find a way to make it yes, and I could see you walking away. I lost it.”

That was all he could think to say, but against his shirt he felt her hot tears, and those he had to stop. He smoothed a hand over her back, bent to kiss her face, felt the gradual melting of her tension beneath his hands, and despite the complexities of emotion that rampaged through his body, he could not stop. His hands dipped lower, pulled her closer to his quickening heat, and the comfort of his caress changed tenor. There was no other way to show her how well they fit, no other way to communicate the depth of his feelings.

When he undressed her, she did not resist. When he took her down onto the floor amid the mess of discarded clothes,
she went willingly. When he made love to her every part with slow, thorough intensity, she responded with the same cries of fulfillment—but there was a sadness in her eyes and an inevitability tapping at the edge of his consciousness.

What if this is the last time? What if you never again taste the sweetness of her mouth and her skin? What if you never again experience this wild, soaring connection?

No matter how many times he turned to her that night, no matter how many times and ways he showed her how well they fit, he still felt oddly unfulfilled.

 

“Stay,” he breathed against her sweat-dampened skin late in the night, and Isabelle nestled against his body and listened to his promises. He would get her a cottage in the country. He would find her a job, her own business if she would prefer. And each promise of what he could buy her or what he could make happen with his wealth and position only deepened her conviction to leave.

There was only one gift that would change her mind, one that didn't cost a penny, the one she feared he would always hold back.

His love.

T
he wedding was everything Isabelle had expected and feared. A beautiful, wonderful, miserable, emotionally exhausting roller coaster before she even arrived at the church. She did her bridesmaid's turn down the aisle without drawing unnecessary attention to herself, particularly from the man standing at the groom's side. As predicted, Justin Harrington had missed the rehearsal, and this was her first glimpse of Chessie's one-night stand. Tall, his bearing stiff and aloof, taking no interest in the procession of bridesmaids.
Phew.

One by one they took their places and then, over the first trumpet blares of the processional, she heard the creak of pews and rustle of rich fabrics as the guests turned to watch the bride's entrance. Isabelle glanced sideways past the line of extravagant pink frocks and caught Hugh drawing a deep breath, and beyond him the ice-cold expression of his brother. She'd heard nothing but good about the responsible, dutiful
elder Harrington since he'd been revealed as the father of Chessie's baby, but now—a shiver tingled the length of her spine—he looked so cold. Quickly she shifted her focus back to Hugh, found his attention riveted and his face wreathed in pride and love and simmering excitement as his bride approached. The bottom dropped out of her stomach.

This is what she ached for—not the ring or the pretty dresses, not massed roses and glorious music, but the meaning behind today's ceremony and the look on Hugh's face that said it all.

Sudden tears choked her throat, but that was all right. It was a wedding. She could disguise them behind a smile of feigned happiness. Her peripheral vision filled with tear-blurred white, and blinking rapidly she turned enough to see Cristo handing his sister over to her new life. And as he stepped away, his gaze lifted and caught on Isabelle's—a brief capture, a heartbeat, an intense stab of longing, that only compounded her I-want-this-for-myself wretchedness.

She was such a fool, thinking she could get through this day without revealing the extent of her feelings. She should have run when she had a chance; now she was trapped by the occasion and her duty. If only there'd been somewhere in this ridiculous dress to stow her iPod, she could have blocked out the solemnity of the vows and the depth of meaning behind them.

But music would not have blocked out the huge smile that spread across Hugh's face when the minister pronounced them man and wife. Nothing could have blocked out his whoop of delight as he grabbed Amanda by the waist and swung her up and around in an open display of triumphant joy. Spontaneous applause broke out through the church, the mood so buoyantly infectious that even Isabelle laughed.

Then she was swept up in a joyous procession from the
church, formal photos, and an endless greeting line at the exceedingly grand Aylesbury Hall. She'd thought the reception might be easier, but she'd not counted on the unusual interest in her…and the story of how she'd met Cristo. Someone—Vivi, she presumed—had embellished the story with enough dramatic flair that every second woman she met sighed, “How romantic.” Several asked if there would be another wedding soon, and Isabelle wanted to shout the truth: he has everything he wants—why on earth would he marry me?

At her side, taking this all in, was Alejandro Verón. Absurdly handsome and an outrageous flirt, he should have proved the perfect partner. But his touch created none of the zing of his brother's, and his interest in her affair with Cristo—apparently he'd not been taken in by Vivi's version—made her uncomfortable. His questions seemed to seek a reason for Cristo's interest, and in the end she told him straight. “No, we don't have a lot of common interests other than sex.”

“You are a realist,” he said with calming approval as he ushered her to the floor to join the bridal waltz. “I can see that you are not taken in by all this wedding bull.”

Obviously she was a better actor than she'd thought; those childhood lessons had really paid off.

“This is good,” Alejandro decided, taking her into his arms. “You will deal well with my brother.”

 

Usually Cristo dealt well with the strictures of duty, especially when they pertained to his family. Today they'd kept him from Isabelle at a time when he needed her close, reminding her how well they fit together and attempting to regain the connection they'd forged last week. But they hadn't spoken more than ten words, and he seethed beneath the weight of his responsibilities as host. Even now, with the traditional
aspects of the reception finished, he could not relax and enjoy the party he had paid for. Everyone wanted to congratulate him on the splendid event. All he wanted was to cut in on his brother, to hold Isabelle in his arms.

“She and Alejandro seem to have hit it off,” Vivi commented. She'd not missed the reason for his distraction; his gaze had been following the other couple around the floor. “She has won us all, your Isabelle.”

“She is going back to Australia.”

His graceful mother missed a step, but recovered quickly. “Have you asked her to stay?”

“Yes,” he said tersely. “I have offered her a home, a job, her own business. I have done everything but beg.”

“Then perhaps it is time to go down on your knees.”

She was not suggesting he beg, but the notion of matrimony as a relationship cure was laughable when it came from Vivi. Cristo could not laugh, not even with the cynicism reserved for her. For the length of this exchange he'd lost sight of Isabelle in the swirl of dancing couples, but now he found her again.

Dancing with Justin Harrington.

Luck had been on their side. Harrington's last-minute arrival for the wedding meant no time for introductions or to learn that the last-minute bridesmaid was Isabelle Browne. Now Christo manoeuvred close enough to see Isabelle's face. She needed rescuing, fast.

Vivi had no complaint when he cut in on the other couple. Slipping from one man to the other, she took Justin's hand and steered him away with smoothly practiced skill.

“Thank you,” Isabelle said shakily. “That was very well done.”

“Vivi has her moments.”

She tried a smile, but it trembled at the edges and Cristo fastened his hold. “He knows?”

“Someone was talking, he heard my name. I had to tell him about Chessie.”

Dios.
“You told him she's pregnant?”

“Only that she's here, at Chisholm Park. The rest is not mine to tell.”

Relieved, he tucked her closer beneath his chin and dipped to press his lips briefly against her cheek. A small kiss, but the contact he craved. The rest of this dance was his to enjoy.

 

All day Isabelle's emotions had been building, a giant weight pressed against a wall of tightly masked composure, and all it took was the butterfly touch of Cristo's lips to bring that wall tumbling down. The shudder started deep inside and moved through her in a rush of heartfelt longing.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear.

Isabelle shook her head slightly. She could have blamed Justin, the shock of that ambush, but she was tired of make-believe. Sick of hiding the truth of her feelings. And when he drew back—enough to lift her face, to look into her eyes—she could not lie. “You were partially right,” she said quietly. She lifted her hand from his shoulder, brushed her fingertips along his jaw. “Some women do fall in love in less than a month.”

His head came up reflexively, and her gaze fell away with her hand. She did not want to see the shock in his eyes.

“It's all right,” she continued quickly. “You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Now it was done, she couldn't slip back into the bittersweet dance. She needed space to breathe and compose herself,
perhaps to lash herself for that burst of honesty, and when a couple dancing energetically by bumped into Cristo, she took advantage of their profuse apologies to tug her hand free of his and slip away.

The knowledge that he would follow and demand further explanation—possibly even use her vulnerability to change her mind—leant her feet desperate speed. She didn't know where she was going—she just needed solitude, and she headed out into the maze of gardens, kicked off the constrictive heels that hadn't fitted her properly and kept on running.

She didn't stop until walls of hedges halted her progress, and she sank onto a nearby garden bench. Winded, her breath rasped painfully in her lungs, and when she leaned forward to ease the pressure, the wetness of tears spilled from her face to mark the bodice of her frock. It was a shock to learn she was crying. It was a bigger shock to discover she was not alone.

“Trouble in paradise?”

She recognised the sneering edge to the voice without looking up. More than two hundred guests, and it had to be Madeleine. She didn't answer; there was nothing to say, but that didn't stop her tormentor. Isabelle heard the swish of her dress coming closer, and she tensed reflexively.

“If you're trying to escape, too, there's a gate down here.”

That sounded surprisingly helpful, and when the dress swished on by, Isabelle caught the edge of agitation in the movement and looked up. Shoes in one hand, purse clutched in the other, Madeleine was stalking toward the far end of the garden room. Escaping, too?

When she stumbled unsteadily, car keys and shoes tumbled from her hand to the ground. Isabelle sat up straighter. “You're not driving…?”

“I don't intend walking all the way home.”

Alarmed, Isabelle bit down on her irritation. “Since you can't walk straight, that would not be a good idea.”

Hunkered down and still struggling to gather up her shoes, the other woman cut her a look. “Do you have a better one?”

A smile ghosted across Isabelle's lips as she remembered where Madeleine's home was located.
Oh, the irony of chance.
“Actually, I do.” She rose on steady feet and held out her hand. “If you give me your car keys, I will drive you.”

 

She'd gone. Cristo didn't know how or where to, but Isabelle had disappeared. At the wedding he found only her shoes, a pair of ridiculously high-heeled sandals discarded on the terrace steps. In the room they'd shared the night before the wedding, where he'd intended to woo her again tonight, he found the bridesmaid's dress and an insultingly brief note.

“Thank you for everything. Love, Isabelle.”

It was enough to get his hackles up, to send him chasing back to Chisholm Park, but somehow she'd managed to outrun him. The suitcase packed with her own things was gone; the clothes from Nina's hung neatly in the closet. There was no second note—perhaps she thought everything had been said, but she was very much mistaken.

Wherever she had gone he would find her and he would have the right of reply. He didn't know if he could change her mind, if what he had to offer was enough to make up for his wrongheadedness when he'd returned from Russia—even if he was what she wanted.

But the thought of his life without Isabelle stretched before him, infinitely longer and more dismally grey than his first
English winter, and he knew that he would offer everything that he feared and more. To keep Isabelle in his life, he would offer whatever it took.

 

Isabelle could hardly believe her unexpected good fortune. Madeleine had proven a most worthy accomplice, not only in providing an escape from the wedding, but she'd then offered Isabelle the loan of her family's seaside cottage. “Why are you helping me?” Isabelle asked, suspicious.

“You're leaving Cristo,” the other woman said. “Why wouldn't I help?”

She hadn't wanted to take up that offer, but in the end it was her only option. Justin Harrington had beaten her back to Chisholm Park, he'd spirited Chessie away to London and although her sister sounded confident of working out a solution, Isabelle remembered the man's haughty demeanour and she worried.

She couldn't leave England yet, not without knowing that Chessie's plans were solid and in
everyone's
best interests, not only that cool-eyed aristocrat's.

And as if to clinch the deal, she learned that the Delahuntys' cottage was in a quiet Cornish village, a stone's throw from the beach. Isabelle never felt more at home than walking on the beach and around the cliff tops. Every day she walked and she chewed over her options. If her sister stayed in England, she liked the idea of being close. Part of her growing family. She could get a housekeeping position, perhaps cook or butler, but she hated the thought of running across Cristo. Or even Vivi or Amanda or Madeleine.

When she grew tired of the incessant eddying of her thoughts, she plugged in her earphones and filled her head with music. That was today's choice. That's why she didn't
hear the helicopter zooming in from the east or hovering above the cliff top in preparation for landing. That's why she had no warning at all until she reached the end of the beach, turned and there he was at the foot of the stairs leading up to the cottage. Even from this distance she knew it was him, by the set of his shoulders, the exact way he held his head, the loose roll of his limbs as he started toward her. And mostly by the crazy leap of her heart.