Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (7 page)

“Not if I'm interrupting.”

“You can always help.” He lifted one unclothed shoulder to indicate his meaning.

For the briefest of moments, her gaze drifted with the notion, before she snapped to attention. “I meant the phone call.”

“That was only my mother,” he said dismissively. Then, when her eyes widened with disapproval, he elaborated. “She wanted to discuss a problem with the wedding arrangements.”

“When there may not be a wedding,” she murmured, picking up on his meaning.

“Indeed.”

Their gazes met in a moment of solemn accord, a reminder of what still sat between them. Her being here in his house, in his bedroom, was not about them or the fizz of physical attraction. Yet. The seriousness of the situation with Harrington and her sister lurked, dark as a thundercloud, on the horizon. But when he'd opened the door and found her standing there, when he felt the heat of her gaze taking him in and the lightning-bolt response low in his belly, he knew there would be a time for them.

He could be patient. Opening his bedroom door to a willing Isabelle would be worth the wait.

Leaving the door wide open, he retreated to an armoire and deposited the phone. In the wall mirror he saw her swallow her reservations, lift her chin and step into the room…not very far into the room, however. Barely over the threshold she paused, her unsettled gaze skating from the bed to his shirtless back and on around the room. She looked uncomfortable and out of sorts.

Because this was his bedroom, because he was only half-dressed, because she too felt the crackle of awareness and wanted to run from it. A pity this was the wrong time. He would have enjoyed the chase.

Suppressing that desire, he turned to the bed, sat and reached for his shoes and socks. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I am assuming that you didn't come down here to watch me dress.”

“Have you spoken to Harrington?” she asked quickly, but he felt the warm glide of her gaze over his shoulders and back as he bent to pull on a shoe. He glanced up and caught her looking. He saw the involuntary flare of her nostrils, the softening of her bottom lip, the guilty flush of colour in her cheeks, and gave up the fight to suppress his elemental response.

She looked at him like that, his body responded. So be it.

“Unfortunately, I haven't,” he said slowly in response to her question.

Her chin came up, her gaze sharpening on his. “Why ever not?”

“Because he isn't answering his phone.”

“Does he know that you found Chessie? Did you leave a message?”

“With Amanda?” he asked dryly.

“What about at work,” she persisted. “Surely he has a secretary or an assistant.”

“That would be Amanda.”

“Oh.”

Cristo watched her chew at her bottom lip while the heat stirred in his belly and thighs and all points in between. “I may not hear from him for several days,” he warned, predicting her next question. “He is out of town.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

For a second he thought she would question that, as well, but then she let go her indignation on a weighty sigh. Her shoulders slumped and that signal of defeat, small but definite, brought Cristo to his feet.

“This is not such a bad outcome,” he said. “You and Francesca can use a day to recover from the flight. Catch up on your sleep, relax, and when he does arrive you will be ready to deal with the meeting and the outcome.”

She did not look convinced. Worry creased between her brows as he closed down the space between them. He had no purpose in mind other than a need to be nearer, to ease that worry, to see her eyes spark once more. Through the open door he heard voices—Crash's gruff murmur, Francesca's response. He cocked his head, drawing Isabelle's attention to the sound. “Your sister will appreciate the time to get her bearings, surely.”

“You're right about Chessie,” she relented. Wary eyes followed him as he passed. She jumped a little as he closed the door, isolating them from the distraction of those voices.

“And what about you, Isabelle?” he asked, turning to meet her chary gaze. He could have smiled to ease the moment. He could have backed off and allowed her more space. Instead, he leaned forward and touched a thumb to the dark circle beneath one eye. “You didn't sleep on my plane. I hope you will feel comfortable enough here to make up for that lack.”

“That depends.”

“On?”

Her chin came up, her eyes met his with resolute purpose. “My role in your household.”

“Guest doesn't work for you?”

“Not when you are paying me, no.”

Cristo folded his arms over his chest and regarded her
silently for a moment. It was a pretence. He'd known she would not let this go, that she would insist on taking up some form of paid employment. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

“That's not for me to say when I don't know your staff arrangements. I'm not even sure of Crash's position. Is he your butler?”

“Butler, cook, valet. He runs the house.”

“Alone?”

“Pretty much.”

She drew a strong breath, and her eyes darkened with a new determination. “Then I'm sure he could use help. Perhaps in the kitchen.”

Cristo's lips quirked.

“Is that a problem?” she asked, noticing.

“Crash is, shall we say, a little territorial.”

“About his kitchen?”

“About the whole house.” When questions shadowed her expression, he continued. “Crash oversaw the renovations and the decorating. He lives here. I spend more time away than under this roof.”

“At your country place?”

“Chisholm Park is home, but I don't spend as much time there as I would like. My life necessitates travel.” He lifted a shoulder, a gesture of acceptance of what his life entailed. “This place is a convenience when I'm in the city, and a business asset. Clients are impressed.”

“I imagine so,” Isabelle said, looking around the room with a new perspective. As impressive as the formal rooms and the guest suites were, she couldn't place Cristo in them. He was too big, too uncompromisingly male and too comfortable with all that masculinity. This room, however, was different. “You had a hand here,” she mused. “This is you.”

“Well noticed,” he said.

Just two words, offered with the same insouciance as all that came before, but the flame in his eyes sucked all the air from Isabelle's lungs. Beyond the door she heard muffled voices, but still she could not look away. She could not breathe. She could not do anything to break the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

“At some point you must tell me how you reached that conclusion,” he said, his voice as dark and slumberous as his eyes, “and what you see as ‘me.'”

Before she could think how to answer, a knock sounded at the door. A female voice that wasn't Francesca's was raised to a level that would have reached across to the depths of the dressing room. “Cristo, your goon says you are not to be disturbed, but I think he's having a lend. If you really do have a woman in there, you'd best say so quickly because otherwise I'm coming in.”

“My sister,” Cristo said smoothly, eyes still fixed on Isabelle's. “Shall I tell her to go away?”

Was he serious? Was that wicked message in his eyes for real? Isabelle's heart did a funny quickstep. Her mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out.

“Cristo?” Amanda rapped loudly at the door. “I'm serious. I really do need to talk to you.”

Cristo's eyes met hers, the teasing heat now overlaid with regret. “We are going to need an explanation.”

“For me being here?”

“For you being here in my bedroom, yes, but more importantly, for you and Francesca being here in my house.”

A
manda burst through the door in a flurry of righteous indignation. She punched Cristo's arm, then she hugged him, all the while admonishing him for not opening the door, for not answering any of her messages over the past week and finally for disappearing to Australia without any explanation.

Cristo, Isabelle noticed, did not attempt to get a word in. He pretended to wince at the puny punch, and he hugged her back with what looked like genuine affection and a large dose of forbearance that Isabelle thought was largely for show. They made quite a picture—he a big cat, all golden-skinned power, his sister a kittenish beauty with a sleek brunette bob and porcelain-pale skin.

Without drawing breath, Amanda launched from general complaints into a specific and passionate tirade about unapproved changes to the menu for her wedding breakfast. At her indignant “Harry despises shellfish. I told the planner—she
doesn't listen,” Isabelle's stomach twisted. She hated high melodrama—that had been her mother's specialty; it still tied her in knots of anxiety—but after a minute of observing Amanda she knew Hugh's return and Chessie's revelations would not be received with calm, levelheaded stoicism.

Feeling like an intruder on a private family moment, she'd slunk back out of view, wanting nothing more than to blend into the furniture. This wasn't impossible; it was a skill she'd learned early in life that held her in good stead in her work.

But now she longed for true invisibility because Cristo was turning his still-fuming sister beneath his arm, his intent clear. Isabelle's eyes widened with a
no, please don't!
appeal. Which he, dammit, spoke right over.

“Take a breath before you hyperventilate,” he told his sister. “And after you've done that, you might say hello to Isabelle.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Amanda said. Her pansy-dark eyes took in Isabelle with undisguised curiosity. “I didn't even notice you there. You must think I'm completely self-absorbed.”

“You are,” Cristo murmured.

“I know,” she agreed blithely. Her smile for Isabelle held genuine warmth and a complete lack of repentance. “This wedding has turned me into an utter bridezilla. I can't wait until it's all over and I'm myself again. Or myself under the new name of Mrs. Hugh Harrington,” she added.

Isabelle's heart sunk. Her eyes sought Cristo's for help, for guidance, for anything to stop this conversation descending into complete hell. He obliged by releasing his sister and reaching for Isabelle's hand. He drew her close to his side and shocked her all the way to her toes by pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Isabelle is the reason I flew to the other side of the world,” he continued, his voice dropping to a level that made all her
female bits tingle, even while her sensible, logical self shrieked an objection.

Cristo squeezed her hand in warning, and she pressed her lips shut.

Amanda had not missed a thing. Her inquisitive eyes shifted from Isabelle to Cristo. “My, my, big brother, you are full of surprises.”

What could she say? The biggest surprise is still to come? She's here in this house and pregnant with your lying, cheating fiancé's baby?

What if they bumped into each other, right now, on the stairs? With both Amanda and Chessie oblivious. Sick with the thought of that confrontation, she sent a beseeching look up at Cristo.

“Crash has got it,” he said casually, but there was reassurance in his expression and in the strength of his hand holding hers. Crash must have been prewarned about keeping Chessie out of the way. Isabelle did not have a problem with that. Subtly she returned the press of Cristo's palm against hers, absorbing the heat and his energy and telling herself it was okay to enjoy the sensation. It was a necessary act; for Chessie and for Amanda she could play along.

A tiny frown creased Amanda's forehead. “What has your gorilla got?”

“Kitchen emergency,” Cristo replied smoothly. “Isabelle was wanting to help with dinner. I've been convincing her that help isn't necessary.”

Amanda turned accusing eyes on her brother. “If you had told me you were eating in, I would have cancelled my plans and joined you.”

“Perhaps that is why I didn't tell you.”

“Well, I know when I'm de trop,” she sniffed. “I'll leave
you to whatever you were about to get up to, but please will you speak to the caterer? He pays no attention to me or to the planner, but you have weight.”

Cristo assured her that he would deal with it. With that off her shoulders, Amanda kissed them both warmly on each cheek in a very Continental manner and assured Isabelle that she would call and arrange a date “to lunch at Ivy,” before departing as abruptly as she'd arrived.

A second later her face reappeared at the door.

“I almost forgot. Vivi is in Rome for an exhibition for Patrizio.” She rolled the
r
in the name and her eyes simultaneously. “She left strict instructions that I was to attend the Delahunty gala, but Harry won't be back in time and now you are, so I think I can quietly opt out.” Her eyes slid to Isabelle and back. “I imagine you will be taking Isabelle, which will certainly make the night…interesting.”

“Good night, Amanda,” Cristo said firmly, closing the door on her cheeky grin.

Isabelle had no idea what that exchange was about. Her mind spun with names but also with a heady sense of relief because so much could have gone wrong and hadn't. In the post-Amanda quiet, she could feel the textured heat of Cristo's hand more intensely. Alone that connection felt stronger, more intimate. He stood too close, their arms aligned from shoulder to wrist, his thigh a whisper away from hers. She knew she should put an end to this charade—she would, once her mind stopped spinning.

“So that was your sister,” she said, because something had to be said. “She is…” Her voice trailed off because she didn't know quite how to describe the pint-size virago.

“Loud? Exhausting? Overindulged?”

“Well, it takes someone to do the indulging,” she said, and
he laughed, a lazy ripple of amusement that did crazy things to her pulse.

“I accept some culpability.” He shifted slightly; Isabelle felt the brush of his hip against hers. Some parts of her body melted, others tightened, but she sensed a shift in the mood along with his stance, and her whole being tuned in to that weighty tension. Despite the laughter, she knew he was about to get serious.

“Amanda was born with a heart murmur,” he said. “She was always this tiny little thing, fragile but game. She's had a string of operations, but she would not give up, even when her heart stopped beating. So, yes, we tend to indulge her. We have only ourselves to blame.”

Her heart had stopped beating? Little wonder he was so protective. Isabelle had never faulted him for that, but now that she knew the full story…all the physical sensations were forgotten as she grappled with a new, deeper, more dangerous desire. She wanted more than her fingers curled in his. More even than to curl into his body, to wrap her arms around him, to reach for his mouth to taste that husky male laughter.

She wanted to know more.

She wanted to know
him.

“And now?” she asked, the emotion gruff in her voice. “She looks healthy.”

“Healthy as an ox. The last operation did the trick.”

“I'm glad.”

And she was sincerely glad. Amanda had such vivacity about her, and she hated the thought of that spark dimmed by Hugh's perfidy. She'd liked Amanda at first sight, loathed the perfidious Hugh without meeting him. “She sounds very attached to her fiancé.”

“Unfortunately, yes. She believes this is true love.”

Isabelle heard the cynical edge to those last words. “And you don't?”

“I believed they were well suited,” he replied. Adroitly avoiding the issue of love, Isabelle noted. “Amanda has known Hugh a long time. She's great friends with his sister and knows all the family—and she's worked for Harringtons as his PA the past two years. Yet despite all she's seen firsthand, she set out to win him.”

“All what, exactly?”

“He has a reputation for partying hard. I suspect that he's more than earned the tag of Heartbreaker Hugh.”

In spite of the heat of his hand holding hers, Isabelle felt a coldness inside. Heartbreaker Hugh did not sound like a man who would stand by Chessie. “Yet you seem very involved in the wedding arrangements….”

“As Amanda's brother and guardian. Don't get me wrong, Isabelle. I didn't approve of their engagement at first. It has taken Hugh a year of devotion to Amanda to win me around. I thought he'd grown up,” he said darkly. “I thought this marriage might actually stand a vague chance of success.”

This
marriage. Isabelle turned the telling phrase over in her mind, recalling what she'd learned of his family history in the Mornington restaurant. “As opposed to your mother's two?” she asked.

“Make that four.”

Four?
Isabelle swallowed. “Your mother has been married four times?”

“And currently considering a fifth. Patrizio, who entertains us all with his newfound career as an artist.” His lips twisted into a cynical facsimile of a smile. “Vivi believes in true love, too, you see. She just hasn't quite found one that lasts longer than the honeymoon.”

There didn't seem anything to say in answer to that. As much as she appreciated his frankness and this extra insight into his family, Isabelle was left feeling hollow and dispirited. She needed something to latch on to, to lash out at, and his manipulation of her presence in his bedroom seemed the perfect target. She tugged at her hand, and he, surprisingly, let her go without argument.

“How are we going to deal with what Amanda thinks she saw here?” she asked brusquely. “She thinks we are lovers.”

“By the end of tonight, half of London will think the same thing.”

Isabelle's head came up. She met his eyes, no longer dark with cynicism but steady and watchful. “What do you mean?”

“Amanda talks. A lot. I imagine she'll be on at least her sixth phone call by now.”

“You don't sound very concerned.”

“I'm not,” he said evenly. “It would seem the perfect solution.”

“To?”

“The question of why you and your sister flew into England on my private jet and now are ensconced in my house.”

For a long moment, she stared back at him. Her heart was beating all over the shop. Was he serious? He looked serious. She puffed out a breath and shook her head. “No one will believe that you and I are lovers.”

“Why not?”

“Because…look at me.” Head high, she lifted her arms to indicate her ordinary looks, her plain clothes, her girl-next-door appearance, and Cristo did as instructed. He looked at her, slowly, thoroughly, intently. Hot from the inside out, she lowered her arms. “No one will believe us as a couple.”

“Amanda didn't appear to have any difficulty.”

“She doesn't know that I'm a housekeeper. You fly around
in a private jet. You live in Belgravia and play polo and do lunch at places I've never heard of. You do not date domestics!”

“You know this…how?”

He was being deliberately difficult. She had to make him see reason before he did something truly ludicrous, such as accepting Amanda's suggestion of taking her to this gala do. She sucked in a breath. “This function Amanda mentioned…”

“It's a charity dinner and auction,” he explained, “for one of my stepfather's closest friends, who happens to be on the board of Chisholm Air. Alistair was a patron of the Delahunty Foundation. His company remains a major sponsor and supporter.”

“Well, I couldn't go with you to something like that. I wouldn't know what to say or how to act. I'd be like Julia Roberts with the snails in
Pretty Woman.
”

“I believe this year's theme is Russian. I'm almost certain snails will not be on the menu.”

“That is not the point,” she said through her teeth. She felt like grabbing him by the throat and shaking him. “I don't even have any clothes suitable for a formal function.”

“A valid point,” he mused after a moment's narrow-eyed consideration. Isabelle felt like breaking into the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Finally he was taking this seriously. “I have to go to the office in the morning, but as soon as I can get away I will pick you up. Somewhere around one, I imagine.”

The chorus in Isabelle's head stuttered to a confused halt. “Pick me up for…?”

“I'm taking you shopping,” he said. “For whatever you need for this role.”

“This role?” she echoed.

“As my lover, my girlfriend, my mistress, my woman. Which would you prefer?”

Isabelle went hot, then cold. It wasn't only the words he used, it was the tone. It was the dark flare of satisfaction in his eyes. It was the wicked notion tingling through her blood that perhaps he meant this to be real. “No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I won't do it. I would rather scrub floors.”