Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress

by Bronwyn Jameson

  “Did you manage to change her mind?”

  She laughed ruefully and shook her head. “I’m afraid I have never had much success on that score.”

  “Tonight must have been quite a shock for her. Perhaps she needs the extra time to adjust to this turn of events. To allow this new picture of her baby’s father to take shape.”

  “Can I ask…” She turned her glass a slow, measured circle within her hands and inhaled deeply. “Is he everything Hugh suggested?”

  “Justin is a decent man, highly thought of, honourable. Francesca and her baby are in good hands.”

  She took her time digesting that, but gradually the storm in her eyes settled as if she’d accepted his judgement. A small thing, Cristo told himself, to produce such inordinate pleasure. “You must be happy with how this has turned out,” she said. “Given the alternative.”

  Oddly, he hadn’t given any consideration to what had been averted. Not until now. The ramifications for Amanda and Hugh were huge, and that realisation ramped his pleasure to a new level and brought a smile to his lips. “This drink should be a celebration.” He leaned closer, touched his glass to hers. “To satisfactory solutions.”

  “And happy endings,” she added, “for everyone.”

  Cristo toasted that, but she must have noticed the unspoken cynicism in his salute because her gaze drifted away and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth faltered. She sipped at her drink, swallowed, swirled, before her gaze lifted again to his. “What now?” she asked. “How are we to keep this secret until after the wedding? Amanda is so…”

  “Nosy?”

  “She is curious because she cares about you and she thinks we are a couple. She invited me to lunch next week. She pressed me to commit to a day, and she asked if I was coming to her wedding. I can’t keep lying to her, and if she meets Chessie and notices she is pregnant…I can’t keep up this pretence for two weeks, Cristo. I think it would be best if we went to stay somewhere else.”

  “I agree,” he said mildly, and she blinked in surprise. He could think of nothing better than taking her somewhere else, a place with no Amanda, no Francesca, no Harrys of any variety. “I was wanting to spend this weekend at Chisholm Park. You will come with me,” he decided. Not the perfect solution, but one Cristo could warm to…especially if he could ensure they were left alone.

  “But won’t that defeat the purpose?”

  “The purpose being?”

  “To avoid Amanda’s attempts to embrace me into your family. I was thinking Chessie and I should go somewhere remote—a hotel or a B and B.”

  “Somewhere I’m not?” he challenged. “Is that more to the point, Isabelle?”

  “No,” she retorted quickly. “I was only questioning whether Amanda and your mother and the bridal party would be descending on your family home for the wedding.”

  “Thankfully, no. Our village church wouldn’t accommodate the masses, so the wedding is in Sussex, near the Harrington estate. I can assure you that the wedding party will be heading south from London, in the opposite direction to us.”

  She’d been playing with her drink again, turning the glass within her hands, but they stilled on the last word. Her gaze lifted to his. “Does us include Chessie?”

  “She is welcome,” he replied. “Although earlier she mentioned how much she is enjoying London and the galleries.”

  “Her idea of heaven.”

  “Then perhaps she would prefer to stay here.”

  She took less than a second to catch on, for her shoulders to straighten. “You would prefer her to stay here. Be honest—that is what you are really saying, isn’t it?”

  “I would prefer you to myself, Isabelle, with no interruptions.”

  His voice slowed and deepened, his message clearly reflected in her eyes. Suddenly they were back in the car, his hands on her thighs, hers fumbling with his buttons, their breathing hot and impatient. But when he signalled his intent to act, putting down his glass with a decisive thunk and shifting his body weight to his feet, she backed away. Just a few steps before she changed course, circling around to put the huge desk between them.

  From that position of safety, she levelled him a steady gaze. “What are you proposing?”

  “A weekend in the country, no pretence or coercion, just you and me and a dozen polo ponies. As to what else…” Without losing eye contact, he reached down and snagged the polo ball from the desk. He rolled it slowly across the impressive breadth of timber and into her hands. “That ball is yours to play, Isabelle. I’m in your hands.”

  “I don’t need you as a babysitter, and you know it. You’re using me as an excuse,” Chessie accused after hearing of last night’s invitation. Isabelle had badgered her sister into accompanying her on a morning walk—not Chessie’s favourite activity—to talk about her reaction to “Harry’s” surprise identity. But within a block Chessie had hijacked the conversation and turned the walk into a stroll. Feigning fatigue, she sunk to a bench in the centre of the square and narrowed her perceptive eyes on Isabelle’s still-standing figure. “You’re afraid of what might happen. A whole weekend alone with the delicious Cristo. You are such a chicken.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about cowardice,” Isabelle countered hotly. She couldn’t sit; she itched with the need to keep walking, to clear her woolly head after a sleepless night. To feel like her normal, sensible self again. “You could have gone to New York. You’ve already flown halfway around the world to find this man.”

  “And what I found out last night is enough for now. Give me a week to digest all that….”

  “A week? Your decisions usually take less than a second.”

  “Usually I’m not considering anything more important than blue dress or skinny jeans.” Chessie’s eyes held hers, her expression serious for at least a second before she gave a rueful shrug. “Course, in a few days I’ll probably wish I had taken up Cristo’s generous offer, but for now I’m happy with my choice. You, on the other hand, are not.”

  Trust her little sister to see right through her restless irritability. Last night Cristo hadn’t accepted what he called her knee-jerk answer. Initially that had revolved around her employment contract—how could she go away for a weekend when her job was to keep Chessie and Amanda apart?

  He’d responded by giving her the weekend off and suggesting she sleep on it—ha!—and he would ask again when he returned from wherever he’d flown today. He’d told her where, but the name was unfamiliar and possibly unspellable. Yet another sign, she’d reasoned during the hours she’d lain awake and then paced her spacious bedroom, of the disparity in their lifestyles. Yet another reason to resist this mad attraction.

  “I’m not happy because of all this.” She gestured widely around her, at the rows of stately town houses, the chauffeur opening the door of a Rolls Royce at number twelve, the woman emerging decked head to foot in high couture. She waved her hand at her own chain-store jeans. “Belgravia is not me, Chess.”

  “Then perhaps you need a break in the country.”

  “You think Chisholm Park will be anything less?”

  “How do you know? Aren’t you curious, just a little bit?”

  “No,” Isabelle snapped. But when Chessie caught her hand and tugged, she subsided to the seat at her side. She sighed heavily. “Not a bit curious. A lot.”

  Ever since he’d told her that Chisholm Park was his home, and she’d sensed his impatience to be there. That hunger to know more had been fed last night, when he’d diverted Chessie with news of Gisele and polo and she’d eaten up every scrap of information. She remembered the man in Melbourne, so pumped and fizzing with earthy vitality after a morning riding with Judd Armitage.

  This was the man she hungered to know, the real man, the one who’d looked into her eyes last night and spoken with stripped-bare sincerity.

  No pretence or coercion, just you and me and a dozen polo ponies.

  “I am afraid,” she admitted now, “of how much I want to g
o. You know me, Chess. I don’t do weekend romps.”

  “I know, but what if it’s more than that?” Chessie argued. “He’s invited you to his home.”

  Isabelle scoffed dismissively. She had to, to counteract the mad skitter of her heart. “It’s only a weekend.”

  “If that’s all it is, then why not go and satisfy your curiosity? What have you got to lose?”

  Eleven

  Cristo didn’t return from places unpronounceable to seek her answer; he sent a car. According to the message delivered midafternoon in a clipped, haven’t-a-second-to-waste tone by his executive assistant, he’d been delayed unavoidably. A car would collect her at 8:00 p.m. sharp.

  “Like a package to be delivered,” Isabelle grumbled after the call’s abrupt disconnection. “I wonder if his housekeeper will have to sign for me?”

  “Probably won’t need to,” Chessie replied. “Isn’t his country pile quite close to the airport he uses? He might well be there when you’re tossed out on the doorstep. Just waiting to unwrap you.”

  He wasn’t.

  After spending the interminable stop-start drive on tenterhooks, trying her best not to imagine those clever hands undressing her, Isabelle was left deflated. Not because she was looking forward to that doorstep unwrapping. She was too annoyed by his presumptuous sending of a car. She should have sent it packing; she shouldn’t have been swayed by Chessie’s prodding or by the whispery hopes of what if….

  What if he really did feel the same attraction, the same explosion of sunfire in every touch? What if this was more than chemistry, more than a passing intrigue?

  Unfortunately, a part of her had succumbed to that notion. Just a small part, mind, because she was altogether too pragmatic to imagine that plain, ordinary, been-nowhere, done-nothing Isabelle Browne could be anything but a momentary novelty to a man like Cristo Verón. Another part of her—a hot, dangerous, newly awakened part—ached to be that passing novelty. She’d always thought ahead, made the sensible choices, gone with the unselfish options. If she was ever going to throw caution to the wind and do something just to please herself and hang the consequences, this was her chance.

  It was a heady, exciting notion. She could almost hear her sister cheering her on…and that was enough to create huge trepidation. Chessie had a habit of throwing caution to the wind, and now she was dealing with the consequences.

  Despite her emotions careening in every direction, somewhere along the A1 Isabelle managed to doze off. She missed the anticipated rush of seeing Chisholm Park for the first time, which only added to the disappointment of being met by the housekeeper. Meredith, a tall, stylish redhead who didn’t wear a uniform, told her that Cristo would not be home for hours yet. There followed a quick tour of the house, peppered by directions of “this room is” and “over there you’ll find” that Isabelle was too unfocussed to take aboard.

  After Isabelle declined the offer of supper, tea or anything from the kitchen, Meredith prepared to leave. “Cristo said you should make yourself at home. Do you remember where everything is? The kitchen and the library and his sitting room with the big-screen tele?”

  Isabelle said yes, she remembered, since she had no intention of exploring the endless corridors or of sitting up to welcome him home. Unsure whether she would stay, she didn’t unpack. She took her time preparing for bed; she imagined she would still be tossing and turning long after eleven. But after a cursory round of tosses and turns, she surrendered to the thick embrace of her down duvet and slept dreamlessly until after six. For the first time in weeks she felt deeply rested and ready to face the day. Outside birds chattered with early morning industry, but the house slept on. She hurried down two flights of stairs and out the front door without drawing breath. She craved her morning walk, her thinking time, before she faced any conversation or decisions.

  It was a splendid morning for walking. In the splintered sunlight of the tree-lined driveway, the air was shivery cool despite her sweater and jeans and she set off at a brisk pace, her mind only on the task of exercise. But soon it grew impossible to ignore the birdcalls, and the drumming vibration of an unseen woodpecker slowed her pace as she skimmed the treetops in a vain attempt to locate the creature. As her view widened, she was captured by a cluster of horses, sleek and glossy beneath the clear sky, and as she continued to turn in a slow circle the house came into view and her eyes boggled.

  If she’d thought the Belgravia town house was something, then this was something else.

  Three storeys of red-brick stateliness stood like a rosy castle amid endless acres of verdant parkland.

  “Chisholm Park indeed,” she murmured as she scanned the sweeps of grass broken by uncontrived plantings of leafy herbage and trees. Oaks and beeches and ashes—and, over to the west, beyond a dense wooded thicket, she caught the gleam of sunlight on water.

  Intrigued, she turned off the driveway and cut across an open field, her stride lengthening as she followed the downhill slope until she found a better vantage point for what turned out to be a small lake. It was picture perfect, a movie set, beyond anything she’d imagined.

  Seeking a closer view, she continued on, following a pathway until the ground levelled out. She paused when she heard the distant sound of galloping hooves. Curious, she changed direction through a wooded grove and exited onto a closely mown field where a trio of horses and riders raced in hot pursuit of a polo ball. She recognised it from the one Cristo had rolled across the desk. She recognised Cristo in the same heartbeat, despite the face-shadowing helmet. In white breeches and long tan boots, he manoeuvred his shiny black steed to overtake the others with languid ease.

  Isabelle was riveted.

  Yes, she’d seen him at polo practice before—she’d commented on his prowess at the Mornington restaurant—but that day she had watched from a distance. She’d not been close enough to feel the ground reverberate beneath thundering hooves, to smell the earthy mix of horse and turf, to hear the urgent calls that signalled the next play. Today she’d wandered right onto the edge of the action, and she watched transfixed as the threesome powered by. Cristo led the charge at breakneck speed, and when he leaned precariously low over the horse’s side, her breath caught in alarm.

  But with effortless skill he swung the stick in a smooth arc and smacked the ball beneath his horse’s neck and out of the others’ reach.

  They wheeled to follow, and Isabelle’s heart resumed beating with renewed exhilaration. Grinning widely, she lifted her hands to applaud and then realised that the ball was rocketing across the grass toward her. She didn’t want to interrupt their practice; she would have scooted back into the shelter of the trees, but then Cristo spotted her.

  His head came up, a new alertness in his posture, and Isabelle knew his gaze had locked on her. She felt the ripple of awareness down her spine, the jump of her pulse, the curl of honeyed heat in her stomach, and she couldn’t move. With an infinitesimal lift of his hands, he slowed his horse, and she heard him call the others to stop play.

  The ball’s pace slowed on the thicker outer grass, and Isabelle’s heart thumped hard as she threw caution to the wind and took a decisive step to meet it. Intent on her rash purpose—would she roll it back or hand it to him?—she didn’t notice the approaching horse until it cut through her path. The mallet’s powerful swing was so near she felt the shift of air in its wake.

  As she jumped out of harm’s way, the rider lifted her head, and she recognised the venomous smirk of crimson lips. Madeleine. She recoiled reflexively, the punch of shock driving all the breath and heat and exhilaration from her body. Vaguely she registered the cold bark of anger in Cristo’s voice as he called Madeleine to task, and then he was cantering toward her and vaulting from the saddle and striding to her side.

  She was pretty sure he would have wrapped her in his arms if she’d not taken an evasive step and held up both hands to ward him off. She didn’t want cosseting, and she didn’t need his soothing sounds of concern. “I’m fine,” she
assured him, her voice brittle with sudden anger. “Obviously she needs the practice. Her shot was way off.”

  He cursed, or at least that’s what she gathered. The word was foreign—she was going on tone and the way he ripped off his helmet and glove and tossed them the way of his mallet. Helmet hair, she noted snippily, but then he raked a hair through the flattened crown and turned his fierce gaze on her and for a moment her synapses tied themselves in knots. Which, when she started to think again, only made her madder.

  “I’m going to resume my walk now. Is it safe to continue this way—” she indicated the path along the side of the field “—or should I go back the way I came?”

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said.

  “Protection? Is that necessary?”

  She started to move away, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, turning her back toward him. She felt like slapping the hand away, but beyond his broad shoulders she could see the two horses, two riders, waiting and watching. She was not about to give Madeleine and friend the benefit of front-row seats to any display of disillusioned fury.

  “You had a right to be angry, even before Madeleine’s stunt,” he said. “I meant what I said about this weekend. I didn’t invite her here.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanation,” she said tightly.

  “Yes, I do.” Cupping both shoulders, he held her steady. Forced her to meet his gaze. “Madeleine is playing in a charity tournament tomorrow. This morning she discovered that one of her ponies is lame. She needs a replacement.”

  “And she thought of you.”

  “She thought of me, the team sponsor, who she knows is not playing tomorrow and will therefore have spare ponies.”

  Oh. She swallowed. “Why aren’t you playing?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  “I have other plans.”

  Those other plans pulsed between them for a long moment, and Isabelle felt a change in his grip, saw a new tension in the set of his jaw. He was waiting for her to object, to tell him that her plans had suddenly changed, and three seconds ago he would have been right on the money. But now…“You were going to play?” she asked, needing to know for sure. “Until these other plans came along?”