Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (3 page)

“What do you need to know?” he responded, still watching her instead of the menus she fanned out on the countertop. Still taking up too much space, his direct, dark-eyed gaze made her feel all too visible.

“It will help my planning if I know your schedule,” Isabelle said. “I prefer notice on which meals you require me to cook, when you will be eating out, if you're expecting guests.”

“Tonight I am eating out. I have a meeting in—” he shot a cuff and consulted an expensive-looking watch “—fifty minutes.”

“Where is your meeting?” she asked automatically. “At this time of day, it will take more than an hour to drive into the city.”

“Not the city. Brighton. It sounds as though you have a good local knowledge.”

“I am a local. Do you need directions? I have a street directory in—”

“Thank you, but not necessary. My car has sat nav.”

Of course it did. Isabelle gave herself a swift mental kick. She'd been too intent on the man, had barely noticed the car. No doubt it was as sleek, expensive and European as its driver.

“Would forty minutes be sufficient driving time?” he asked.

“I'd allow forty-five, minimum, to be sure.”

Somehow he'd managed to trap her gaze, to hold it with the steady strength of his. “Is that your way, Isabelle? Are you the careful type who always makes allowances for the unexpected?”

“I believe that is efficient,” she said carefully. “And sensible.”

“Like your sensible and efficient uniform?”

Not really, but she did not want to indulge whatever issue he had with formality. The shapeless grey dress might be ugly, but it suited Isabelle just fine. “About the menus. Could we look at your preferences?”

She slid the breakfast list forward; he gave it one perfunctory glance and slid it back. “Juice, orange. Eggs, poached. Bacon, crisp but not too crispy. Coffee, Colombian, black.”

So, he
could
address the question efficiently when he chose to. Praise be.
“And lunch tomorrow?”

This time he didn't even glance at the menu choices. “Let's wing it.”

“Wing it?” She frowned. “You must have some requirements, some preferences.”

“Only one.” With fluid grace he straightened his negligent posture and touched her Peter Pan collar with the knuckles of one hand. “This has to go.”

“But I'm required to—”

“I would think that I am paying you enough to entitle me to dictate my own requirements, don't you?”

Isabelle nodded stiffly, then swallowed. He was too close, in her space. An insidious warmth pooled in her belly and thickened her voice when she spoke. “What are your requirements, Mr. Verón?”

“For a start, I don't stand on ceremony. There is no need to address me as Mr. Verón.”

“But—”

He silenced her objection with a finger to her lips. “My name is Cristo. Let us start with that and work our way up, shall we?”

Shocked by his unexpected touch, fighting the temptation to lean into it, to open her mouth, Isabelle stared up at him
for a full second before she could process the request and voice any form of response. “I can try,” she said huskily.

“You strike me as very capable, Isabelle. I'm sure you will catch on.”

Isabelle wasn't sure she wanted to catch on to something that involved the intimacy of first names and working their way up. But as he'd pointed out, he was the boss and paying her an obscenely generous wage, so she nodded in reluctant agreement. And focussed on the lesser of two evils. “What do you require me to wear instead of this uniform?”

“Whatever is comfortable,” he said after considering the question far longer than it warranted. “As long as it is not grey.”

 

Not grey
Isabelle could do, but comfortable? No, she couldn't imagine ever being comfortable with this man. Not when her body still simmered from that simple glancing touch to her lips. Not after his sleepy-lidded eyes had glimmered with wicked intent while he considered the question of her work attire.

Was he picturing her without the uniform? Or in some sexy male-fantasy version? The possibilities should have appalled her, but instead they blazed in her mind as she watched him walk away.

His walk, like so much else about Cristo Verón, was confident and captivating. It grabbed her attention and didn't let go until the front door shut in his wake. Damn the man. He was like some sexy, six-foot, treacle-voiced magnetic field.

Isabelle should have been pleased to see the back of him, but after releasing the breath backed up in her lungs, she slumped into a chair. It was as though his departure had sucked the life force from the air and the stuffing from her legs. Ridiculous, she told herself. And when she ran that last exchange back over, she kicked herself for the missed opportunity.

If she'd been on her game, she would have asked
why
he was paying her the extravagant wage. Who had recommended her so glowingly that he would accept no substitute? Those were not questions she could ask Miriam Horton. At Your Service had a strict policy on discussing clients, but given that the client himself had brought it up, she could have angled in a polite query. Especially since he was pushing for informality in their working relationship. Next time the subject came up, she would not miss the opportunity.

Fortified by that decision, she cleared away the untouched afternoon-tea spread and did a run to the shops for breakfast supplies. Specifically, his requested blend of coffee. She thought about circling around to her home. It was only a ten-minute drive, and she could pick up some comfortable, non-grey clothes. It wasn't as though she needed to be in situ tonight. She didn't expect she would see her client—she could not bring herself to think of him as Cristo—again until breakfast.

But then she thought about her sister and the questions she was likely to ask, and turned her car back toward Mt Eliza. Tomorrow would be soon enough to face Chessie's inquisition.

She should have known her sister better.

Her call came late. No greeting, just an economical “Well?”

Isabelle didn't need any further explanation. They'd spent a lot of years with only each other; they spoke fluent sisterly shorthand. Chessie wanted details, a blow-by-blow of her first afternoon back at work and her impression of Cristiano Verón, but Isabelle found herself unaccountably shy for words.

“Can you not talk?” Chessie asked into the lengthening silence. “Is he there? Are you still working?”

Isabelle contemplated taking the coward's way out, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't lie to Chessie; she could only prevaricate. “No, he's not here, but I don't have anything to
report. He arrived this afternoon and went out to a business meeting soon after.”

“And?” Chessie persisted. “You must have formed some impression.”

A tumult of impressions tumbled over each other in Isabelle's mind, but only one singled itself out as relevant. “He's exactly like his name.” Exotic, expensive, exclusively designer label. “He is Cristiano Verón.”

“You did it? You took my advice and checked his passport?” Chessie sounded both shocked and impressed. “Outstanding!”

Isabelle pinched the bridge of her nose. “I did not look through his things,” she said tightly. “I do not want to lose my job.”

“You sounded so certain.”

“I am. Don't ask me why, just trust my instincts on this,” she said, struggling to sound reassuring when her stomach churned with uncertainty. She could have shared those feelings, but then Chessie was such a wild card. Isabelle did not need her arriving to suss the situation in her impulsive, to-hell-with-the-consequences way. She'd jeopardised Isabelle's position with At Your Service once already; she was not allowing her a second chance. “One thing I do know, he is not Hugh Harrington.”

“That doesn't mean he's not a lackey,” Chessie countered.

Releasing a short, humourless laugh, Isabelle shook her head. “Believe me, Chess, Cristiano Verón is nobody's lackey. I really do think this is a coincidence of timing, that he's a genuine client here on business. Anyone could have recommended me. The Thompsons, for a start.”

“If you say so,” Chessie said with a distinct lack of conviction.

“I
do
say so. And if anything happens that changes my mind, you will be the first to know.”

W
as she pregnant?

From the entryway to the kitchen Cristo eyed his housekeeper's profile as she stretched to open an overhead cupboard. How in the name of all that was sacred could he tell when she insisted on wearing that sack of a dress? Today's version was not grey but an equally dull brown.

What kind of woman elected to wear something so unflattering when she had the go-ahead to choose anything she liked? One who honoured her rules of employment so rigidly that she would not risk her boss's censure? One who took pleasure in countermanding his request for informality?

Or one who didn't want to draw attention to a thickened waistline?

Cristo watched her cross the kitchen with a shimmy in her walk. She looked spry, not pale, with the effects of morning sickness. As she scooped coffee into the machine, she threw
in a loose-jointed sway of her hips that turned his mouth dry. She was singing, too, in a disjointed but warmly tuneful one-word-here, one-hum-there manner that teased his lips into a smile that was quickly quashed. He did not want to be charmed by her or distracted from his purpose, and yet in the past two days she'd evaded his every effort at casual get-to-know-you conversation.

Today was Saturday. Time to step up the pressure.

Absorbed in her breakfast preparations, she still hadn't noticed him in the doorway, and when she stretched higher still, reaching into the overhead cupboard, he seized the opportunity to reveal his presence.

“Let me get that for you.”

With a startled shriek she dropped the bowl, and Cristo hurried to steady her. His reaction was unnecessary, the placement of his hands on the soft curve between waist and hips deliberate, but then he looked down and lost himself in her deepwater eyes. On first meeting he'd thought them hazel, but he'd been wrong. Wrong, too, when he'd judged her merely pretty. That description did Isabelle Browne quite an injustice.

“I'm fine now,” she said in a strangled voice. “Please take your hands off me.”

Slowly Cristo released his grip. He took an equally measured step away. The impression of giving female flesh tingled in his palms as he held them up in a gesture of truce, but his attention was all on her hands that trembled visibly as she ripped earbuds from her ears and tossed them with her music device onto the countertop.

“I'm sorry for startling you.” He dipped his head apologetically. “I didn't realise that you couldn't hear my offer to help.” He'd been too intent on inspecting her waistline, and then on
watching her dance moves, when he should have considered the source of the singing and dancing.

“You scared several years off my life.” Her nostrils flared slightly as she drew a breath and let it go. Still rattled, but making a valiant effort to regather her composure. “You mentioned a later breakfast today. I didn't expect to see you downstairs this early.”

“I'm a morning person. Waking early is a habit. I've been working for a while…as have you, it would seem.” Cristo gestured at the evidence of her early morning industry. The fruit neatly cut. The coffee brewing. The oven's low hum and the sweet aroma of baking.

“My favourite time of day,” she admitted. “I like the peace and the solitude. I can work to my own rhythm.”

He arched a brow at her abandoned iPod, and Isabelle winced.

Had she been singing out loud? First the slippers and now impromptu karaoke. Talk about your consummate professional!

From now on she would be all business, all of the time.

“Your breakfast won't be long.” Briskly she moved to the stove. Switched on the flame. “The morning papers are on the table, which I've set by the window. There are also two phone messages I took last night. If you would care to take a seat, I will bring your coffee.”

In her peripheral vision she saw him glance toward the table, and willed him to follow the glance with his feet. How could she have been oblivious to his arrival? Fresh from his morning shower, he wore jeans—designer label, no doubt—and a black sweater that could, quite conceivably, be cashmere or silk or something equally delicate and soft to the touch. He, on the other hand, looked big and strong and completely male.

And she could still feel the imprint of his hands at her waist.

“With the coffee, please bring a second cup.”

The unexpected request snapped Isabelle back to atten
tion. “Will your guest be staying for breakfast?” she asked, and somehow she managed to sound polite, professional, unperturbed.

“My guest?” His dark gaze flicked over her face. “You misunderstand, Isabelle.” Perhaps it was her imagination, but his voice seemed to deepen, to caress each note of her name. “The second cup is for you. I would like to discuss my weekend schedule, and I believe your local knowledge will be helpful.”

 

Isabelle insisted on completing his breakfast, which she managed despite the distractingly deep hum of his voice returning one of last night's calls. Which one, she wondered? Vivi's call regarding Amanda's wedding, or Chloe calling about Gisele?

Neither was any of her business; she had no right to stew over that string of exotically feminine names. Even if the spark she felt was mutual, he was the wrong man at completely the wrong time. Yet she remained entirely too aware of him—the pull of worry that drew his brows together, the distracted tap of his fingers against the tabletop, his frowning eyes following her around the kitchen.

By the time she joined him at the table, her nerves were strung like a tightly quivering bow. She hated that he'd made her so self-aware. Especially here in the kitchen,
her
place, where she always felt at ease.

Once he'd established that she had already eaten and, no, she did not want coffee because she had given it up, he asked her to recommend a local restaurant. Isabelle's wariness eased. This was her territory. She settled back in her chair, not exactly relaxed but at least not perched on its lip like a sprinter on the blocks.

“Do you have a preference for any specific style of cuisine?” she asked.

“Good local food, nothing too fancy.”

That described her local fish and chips shop, but Isabelle couldn't picture Cristo Verón—even in jeans—eating from a paper bundle on the picnic tables opposite Rosa and Joe's. She figured that her definition of “nothing fancy” might bear little acquaintanceship to his.

“There are a number of winery restaurants on the peninsula which fit that description. Is this for lunch or dinner?”

“Lunch, today. I'm driving to a farm near Geelong this morning to look at ponies. Is there somewhere between there and here, on the return drive?”

“Several,” she replied, trying to quell her curiosity over his morning's plans.
Did he have children? Why else would a man look at ponies? But then why would he be looking in Australia?
“They're all very popular at the weekend, so I would suggest making a reservation.”

He'd taken the seat facing out onto the terrace and gardens, and the morning sunlight softened eyes she'd thought black to a deep velvety brown. “You will be able to secure us a table at one of these places?”

Isabelle's heart did an anxious flutter before she realised that “us” had nothing to do with her. No doubt he'd be lunching with clients or perhaps his pony-farm friends. “At whichever you choose.”

“Which would
you
choose, Isabelle?”

“I couldn't say without more information.”

“For you.”

Isabelle blinked. “For me?”

Easing back in his chair, he linked his fingers loosely over his chest. “I'm asking which of these restaurants would be your personal choice for lunch.”

“None of the above,” she admitted. When one dark brow rose
infinitesimally, she quickly added, “Not because I wouldn't want to eat there, but because they're not within my means.”

“If you had the means?”

“Acacia Ridge.” She named her wish-list number one without hesitation. “Their menu uses local produce in simple dishes with a twist. The cellar is legendary, the service superb and the outlook makes you forget you're so near the city.”

“It sounds like a favourite.”

“I've never eaten there, but it's a favourite with clients.”

“We shall have to do something about that omission,” he said easily, “so you can speak from firsthand knowledge.”

“Perhaps I will treat myself after this week,” she replied, although she knew there would be no treats. Her pay was earmarked for practical purposes, like medical bills and nursery essentials. “I have holiday time due,” she added.

“Which I believe I interrupted, enticing you to take this job.”

Isabelle sat up straighter. Unwittingly she had turned the conversation around and provided the perfect opening. Her heart rate kicked up, and she took a second to compose herself, striving to appear relaxed as she prepared the questions she'd been dying to ask. “If you don't mind me asking…Why did you do that? Why did you request me as your housekeeper?”

“Your name came up when I was talking to a friend.” The hitch of one shoulder was elegantly nonchalant. “Why do you ask?”

Isabelle considered how to answer. She could hardly say:
Because I was wondering if you have some connection to Hugh Harrington, if you're here in response to an I'm-pregnant phone call, possibly to make that inconvenience go away.

“Did you think the request unusual?” he continued when she didn't answer right away. “I find it hard to believe that this level of service—” his small gesture took in the table setting,
the daffodils she'd picked fresh at dawn, the basket of cinnamon scrolls fresh from her oven and the coffee tray with milk in three strengths and four choices of sweetening “—would not earn you many glowing recommendations.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but never for such a generous wage.”

“You were on leave, presumably with holiday plans in place. I wanted to ensure my offer covered the inconvenience and made it worth your while. I interpreted your acceptance as meaning I had offered sufficient incentive and compensation.” His gaze fixed on hers, no longer sleepy-lidded but direct and steady. “Am I to believe I was wrong?”

He thought she was complaining about the pay? “No,” she replied adamantly, heat bleeding into her face at the thought. “You are paying me far too much to do far too little!”

“Then perhaps I need to look at increasing your workload.”

“Of course,” she said hurriedly. “Whatever you require. I would appreciate the chance to earn my pay.”

For several seconds he seemed to consider that offer, his fingers linked loosely while his thumbs drummed a relaxed rhythm against his black-sweatered chest. But his eyes on hers were intent, and the mood had changed subtly, indescribably. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” he asked.

Isabelle felt a tightening in her skin. Awareness, she thought, that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the undercurrents in that question. Her mind hazed over for a second of very specific images—
his hands, her waist, no black sweater, no ugly uniform
—and she had to clear the heat from her synapses before she could construct a businesslike answer. “Cooking is what I do best. If you have any special requests, or perhaps you might care to invite your business associates or friends here for dinner rather than a restaurant. I've also been called upon to shop. If there's anything
you need for yourself or as a gift for your…anyone,” she finished lamely.

One dark brow arched mockingly. “My…anyone?”

“Your wife,” she supplied tartly, thinking of all those damned names on the phone messages again, “or your mistress. Sometimes I've shopped for both.”

“Messy.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Fortunately,” he said slowly after a beat of pause, “I have neither.”

She could do nothing to stop the absurd leap of gladness, nothing except pray it didn't show in her expression. His personal life was not her concern; she did not want to know about Vivi and company. No, she did not.

“No shopping and no dinner parties,” he said, “but I do have something else in mind. Do you drive?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you be ready to leave in half an hour?”

Isabelle felt as though she was being led blindfolded toward the cliff edge, but what could she do? She'd offered to earn her pay; it was too late to rescind the offer. She moistened her suddenly dry lips and plunged ahead. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said with a businesslike nod, and for a brief second Isabelle's qualms settled. He was sending her on an errand. A task to fill in part of a day that would otherwise be spent dusting and vacuuming a spotless house.

“Where will I be going?” she asked. “Do I need to change?”

“Out of that?” He favoured her uniform with a look of high disdain. “Please do.”