Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (6 page)

She knew that fierceness. She understood.

“That's why you are here,” she said softly. “For your sister.”

“She doesn't know. While your sister has been growing his baby, Amanda has been planning their wedding.”

Isabelle had to moisten her suddenly dry mouth before she could ask, “When?”

“The thirtieth of May.”

Three weeks. She swallowed. “What are we going to do about this?”

“I think it's time we brought your sister into this discussion, don't you?”

The words were so cold, his face still so uncompromisingly hard, that Isabelle's indignation blazed anew. “Don't you think you should reserve your anger for the one who deserves it?”

“Believe me, Isabelle, I have enough to go around.”

 

Francesca Browne was the woman Cristo had expected to meet when he arrived in Melbourne.

Blond with a cover-girl face and a body to match, she bore all the trademarks of Hugh's string of girlfriends of days gone by. She arrived at Pelican Point less than ten minutes after Isabelle's phone call, wearing a stylishly loose dress that disguised any sign of pregnancy. Murmuring an apology, she hugged her sister hard before turning a level gaze on him. “So you're Mr. Fix It,” she said.

“I prefer Cristo,” he replied. “I doubt this is a situation I can fix.”

Her perfectly shaped brows rose slightly. “You don't think you can pay me off?”

“I have no intention of attempting to,” he informed her. “Would you like to come through to the living room? I can assure you it is more comfortable than standing here in the foyer.”

Cristo stepped back to let the sisters go first, and they did so arm in arm, talking sotto voce as they went. He followed. He didn't try to eavesdrop. It was enough to watch them, to see their attachment, to know that this version of what happened three months ago made unfortunate sense.

Francesca Browne may well have slept with Hugh Harrington. Isabelle had not. A selfish kernel admitted that he liked this version one hell of a lot better than the alternative.

“Do you often use your sister's name?” he asked after they'd settled.

“No,” Francesca replied.

“I explained why she worked under my name,” Isabelle added. She'd taken a seat on the sofa beside her sister, so they presented a united front of dignity and indignation. Cristo approved of this warrior woman prepared to do battle on her sister's behalf. He respected the tigerish set to her expression and the green fire in her eyes as she went on the attack once more. “She could hardly use her own name when she called Harrington. He wouldn't have had a clue who Chessie Browne was.”

“He didn't have a clue who Isabelle Browne was.”

“Are you saying he doesn't remember Chessie?”

“He denies ever meeting her.”

“He met me,” the younger sister joined in with bitter equanimity. She touched a hand to her belly. “I hold the evidence right here.”

“
You
believe us,” Isabelle interceded.

She posed the words as a statement rather than a question, and when Cristo's gaze meshed with hers he felt the power of that emphatic note. He wanted to reassure her, to wipe the last shadows of uncertainty from her expression, but he was not yet in a position to do so. His instincts about this woman—about the veracity of her story—were strong but he needed to be one hundred percent certain they were no longer adversaries but united in a common cause.

“I am not the one you need to convince,” he told her with an apologetic hitch of one shoulder.

“Then why are you here, if not to answer that question? You said Harrington didn't send you. You said he didn't remember meeting Chessie.”

Leaning forward in his chair, he strengthened the connection of their eye contact. “He came to me for advice on how to handle Francesca's claim of paternity. I was coming to Australia on business. He did not ask me. I chose to meet you.”

“By employing me under false pretences?”

“I concede that did not work out as I had anticipated. However,” he added, eyes still fixed on hers, “I would do it over again for the sake of my sister's future happiness.”

“The end justifies the means?”

“When it comes to my family, yes. Always.”

Cristo's focus was all on Isabelle, his expression as intense as his words. But in the short silence that followed, he heard Francesca clear her throat. Saw her raise her hand in an appeal for attention.

“Hello. Would someone like to fill me in on what is going on?” Despite the blithe tone, bewilderment clouded her eyes as they shifted from Cristo to Isabelle and back again. “What does my pregnancy have to do with your sister's happiness?”

Meeting Isabelle's gaze once more, he inclined his head,
silently giving his consent for her to go ahead. Her nostrils flared as she exhaled heavily. “I'm sorry, Chess, but there's no easy way of saying this. Hugh Harrington is engaged to Cristo's sister. Their wedding is in three weeks.”

Francesca's mouth rounded in a silent O of shock. She blinked and dropped a barely audible profanity. Given the circumstances, Cristo could not blame her. “Does she know about me…about the baby and the call I made to Harry?”

Cristo registered her use of the nickname. Amanda used it, along with several of their closest friends, but very few others. No other single word could have provided such convincing—or condemning—evidence. “No,” he said flatly. “She doesn't.”

Francesca chewed her lip a second, digesting that knowledge. “I gather you are here on your sister's behalf, to find out the truth?”

Cristo nodded.

“And now you know, what do you intend doing with it?”

“Since he maintains no knowledge of you or any relationship, there is only one solution. You and Harrington in the same room, face-to-face.”

“How is that possible?” Francesca said slowly.

He turned to Isabelle, who had listened to this last exchange in stiff-backed silence. Her eyes were huge in a face as pale as her sister's. “Are your passports up-to-date?” he asked. “You are going to need them.”

I
sabelle started shaking her head before he finished speaking. “We can't just up and go to England. It's impossible.”

“You don't have current passports?”

“We do,” Chessie supplied helpfully. “We needed them for Bali last year.”

“Then what is the problem?” Cristo asked. “Is money an issue?”

“It's always an issue and even more so now.”

“It doesn't have to be.” Despite Chessie's responses, he spoke directly to Isabelle. “I will fly you to London. You will stay in my home. All your expenses will be covered.”

His hooded gaze fixed on hers with steadfast purpose, and Isabelle felt a trill of alarm. This was a man used to taking control, to getting his way. If she didn't stand her ground, then her impulsive sister would be swept along on the tide of his will.

She straightened her shoulders. “It's not only the costs involved. I have a job.”

“It is my understanding that you are engaged by me for the remainder of this week.”

“You still want me?” she blurted unthinkingly.

Something flared in his eyes, a slow note of danger. “Why should I not? I have a contract for your services, one week, paid in advance.”

“But you can't want a housekeeper when you're returning to England. I imagine you have staff coming out of the rafters.”

“Not quite,” he said smoothly, but that banked fire still smouldered in his eyes. “I prefer my staff to be more discreet.”

For a long moment Isabelle floundered in the treacherous undercurrents of the exchange, in wanting and services and discretion. She needed to keep paddling to stay on top of this conversation. “You don't need a housekeeper,” she repeated with more force.

“Probably not, but I am attempting to make this easy for you.”

Easy? She might have laughed if this subject weren't so deadly difficult.

“You implied that your job may prevent you accompanying your sister to London,” he continued, “but your job is in my employment.”

“For one week.”

“Which I will extend, on the same terms. Let's say an extra two weeks—” he spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement, probably because Isabelle's eyes had goggled with a combination of shock and suspicion “—to make up for any inconvenience.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not? Your next job for Miriam doesn't start for weeks
yet,” Chessie pointed out. Isabelle gave her a withering look. A traitor at her side was not helpful.

“Your sister raises a valid point. Why not?”

“Because you admitted that you have plenty of staff. You can't possibly need me.”

“But I do.” Chessie exhaled with audible impatience. “Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just accept Cristo's offer? It sounds enormously generous. What have you got to lose?”

Chessie spoke the words. It was Chessie's blue-green eyes that reproached hers. But in her mind's eye she saw determined onyx, heard those same words in a dark baritone, felt a shiver of alarm and mistrust and, God help her, wanton excitement.

What did she have to lose? Oh, just her pride and any semblance of control over her unruly hormones.

“We have to think this over,” she cautioned. Focusing on her sister, she shut out those watchful black eyes through sheer bloody-minded willpower and lowered her voice. “Don't be steamrolled into doing what's most convenient for anyone else. Have you thought about what's best for you and the baby?”

“You know I have, and this is exactly what I would have done myself if I could have afforded the airfare.”

It was true. They'd been over this territory twice before, when Chessie first learned of her pregnancy and again little more than a week ago when, with her first trimester safely behind her, she'd decided to contact the father. Isabelle hadn't been able to talk her out of making that phone call, and now she felt a fatalistic sense of déjà vu.

When had Francesca Ava Browne ever done a proper risk evaluation before plunging into the unknown? From the first time she launched herself on chubby toddler's legs she had been unstoppable—not that this had ever stopped Isabelle
from trying. “That's the point,” she persisted. “You
can't
afford it. What if something goes wrong? You'll be stranded on the other side of the world with no money and no support.”

“And if I don't go, I will be stuck here relying on you for support you can't afford to give.” When Isabelle opened her mouth to object—she had always found money for Chessie; she always would!—her baby sister held up a hand. Suddenly she looked and sounded very grown-up. Isabelle felt the sand shifting beneath her feet. “I need to do this, for me and for the baby. I'm going, Belle. Whether you do or not is up to you.”

 

They arrived in England on Wednesday evening and were whisked to the heart of London in a chauffeur-driven car. Settling into the luxurious leather-upholstered rear seat, Chessie elbowed Isabelle for at least the hundredth time since they'd left Melbourne, mouthing “Wow!”

That enthusiasm had become old somewhere over the centre of Australia, and Isabelle used her last remaining energy to grit her teeth. She'd snapped once already, at a refuelling stop in Dubai. Chessie asked Cristo if they were staying long enough for a look around, and Isabelle, tired and anxious and edgy, had snipped, “For Pete's sake, Chessie, this is not a holiday jaunt.”

“I'm well aware of what this trip is about,” her sister had responded calmly, “but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the fringe benefits.”

Of course Cristo overheard the exchange, and she'd felt his silent judgement slap her right through her travel-lagged irritability. She was supposed to be the serene, sensible sister. Somewhere around her twelfth birthday, Gran had first referred to her as Capability Browne and she'd hugged that reference close, unconsciously adopting the label as the person she wanted to be. Calm, composed, capable.

But these past days—ever since Cristiano Verón had stormed into her life—she'd become someone else entirely. Angry, argumentative, anxious. She'd blamed him and his unpredictability, she'd blamed the worry of Chessie's situation, but now it was time to put on her big-girl's blouse and take responsibility.

She was here to support Chessie, to ensure that her needs weren't overlooked in deference to Cristo's sister. She needed to be alert and on her game. She needed to forget her personal disappointment over how he'd deceived her, feigning interest in her life and her family and her dreams all in the guise of uncovering “her” pregnancy.

That didn't matter now. Protecting Chessie did.

As the big sedan glided to a halt outside a row of elegant town houses, she forced herself to relax the tension in her jaw and her shoulders. And when she glanced across, she saw the same tension etched in Chessie's face. She reached—and it was quite a reach across the width of the backseat—for her sister's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Chessie's fingers gripped hers for a second. They were ice-cold, but her smile was warm. It only trembled a little around the edges. “I'm so glad you came.”

Isabelle smiled back. “So am I.”

 

From the pavement outside, Cristo's home looked like all the others in the immaculately presented rows that lined each side of Wentworth Square. Isabelle blinked in surprise at the traditional facade. She'd expected something more unique, flashy, exotic.

Then she reminded herself that this was Cristiano Verón. Mr. Unpredictable himself.

Inside, she had to remind herself several times more.

Through her job, she was used to grand homes decorated to within an inch of their stylish lives. Most had graced the pages of at least one glossy design magazine. This place transcended anything she'd seen by, oh, about a thousand percent. And, she guessed, several million pounds.

As they trailed through room after room of Georgian splendour, even Chessie was reduced to gaping, wide-eyed silence by the exquisite detail of the cornice work and the marble fireplaces and the antique furniture. Not to mention the staircase that rose through the centre of the building, with galleried landings on each of the three upper storeys. All were lined with ornately crafted railings.

And then there was their guide on this tour of the house. Cristo had introduced him simply as Crash. No further explanation as to his position in the household or whether that was his first or last name. Isabelle had wondered if perhaps he was Krasch or Craczj or some other obscure foreign spelling, until he spoke in a voice that could have played all-England. He'd relayed a series of messages to Cristo, who soon after disappeared to his rooms on the first floor, and she'd pegged him as the butler. Although his unorthodox black jeans and T-shirt, shaggy haircut and unshaven jaw belied such a tame label.

Whatever his position, he showed immense pride in the house. “Cristo bought it three years ago,” he told them as he showed them to their rooms…correction, their
suite
of rooms. “Previous owner had a rubbish eye for decorating. We only finished the refit late last year.”

Isabelle paused in the centre of the sitting room that separated their bedrooms. “You did the whole place out? That must have been a challenge.”

“The challenge was retaining the original design elements while making it liveable.”

Chessie raised her eyebrows at that description. She almost touched the floor-to-ceiling drop of voile curtaining before withdrawing her hand. “Are we allowed to touch?” she asked.

“Everything,” Crash replied dryly, “except the Renoir.”

“You're kidding me.” Chessie peered at the painting over the fireplace, then made a strangled sound. “You're not! Far out.” She whirled around. “And those pictures in the drawing room…They're originals, aren't they?”

“You want to take a closer look?”

Chessie's eyes boggled, and Isabelle waved them off. Not that she wasn't interested in art, just not as passionately engrossed as her sister. And she was keen on talking to Cristo before he left for his country estate. He'd mentioned that to Crash earlier; he had to check that his beloved horse was recovering as well as his staff had promised. But despite this impatience, he'd noticed her worried frown and invited her to track him down after she had settled in.

Crash had pointed out his rooms on the first floor, and on her way down Isabelle chewed over the notion of ever settling in at this house. Artwork by the masters hung on every wall. The thick carpet runners that muffled her footsteps were works of art in themselves.

This world of million-dollar decorating makeovers and chauffeured limousines and private jets he copiloted…this was the world of Cristiano Verón and, she imagined, Hugh Harrington.

It was a world the Browne sisters worked in, not a world they lived in.

The only way she could pretend to settle in was as a working employee—not a token one—and only after she knew when Cristo planned to approach Harrington. She'd not had a chance to broach the question since that night in Mel
bourne. Caught up in the logistics of packing and leaving so swiftly, then in the travel with Chessie at her side, she'd not had a minute alone with Cristo. Now she would.

Hand fisted to knock, she hesitated just long enough to pray that she'd chosen the right door. Sitting room, not bedroom. The knock-knock of her heart resonated as loudly as her knuckles on the thick timber door.

It opened immediately, as if she'd caught him on his way out. Except he couldn't be—not unless he'd chosen to go out on a chilly London evening wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and the phone pressed to his ear. Beyond the impressive breadth of his bare-skinned shoulders, beneath the thickly muscled arm with which he held the door ajar, she could see a bed.

A big, broad bed smothered in a deep chocolate spread. It looked like velvet. It looked like him.

Her gaze rocketed from the bed to his face. There was something in his hooded gaze, a glimmer of heat and of predatory satisfaction, an invitation to come into his lair and do more than talk. Suddenly she was no longer tired; she was wide awake, alive with the tingle of anticipation and the whisper of danger.

Wrong door,
she reminded herself with a snap to attention.
Wrong bed, wrong tingles and absolutely the wrong man.

 

Cristo was expecting her, but not this soon—he'd barely had time for a quick shower, let alone to finish dressing—and not at his bedroom door. Not that he minded. Any interruption from this phone call was welcome. When the interruption was Isabelle Browne with her hair a loose tumble of honeyed curls and her eyes wide and warm and taken aback, it was even more welcome.

“I will call you back,” he said into the phone, cutting off Vivi's rant about the wedding caterer. “I have company.”

His company stood on the wrong side of the threshold, shaking her head and mouthing something about coming back later. Cristo held the door wider. “Are you coming in or not?”