Her new client was devilishly handsome, superbly charming…and absolutely hiding something. Why else would a man as rich and powerful as Cristo Verón have any interest in the cleaning services of lowly Isabelle Browne? Her suspicions were confirmed when she discovered his real reason for hiring her. And suddenly, she was agreeing to a preposterous proposition….

Cristo would protect his family at any cost — and keeping Isabelle close was key to his plan. Having her pose as his make-believe mistress was step one. But he hadn't counted on wanting to make the pretense a reality.

eHarlequin as an ebook

Books On Board ebook

  Cristo paused outside her door. The music playing inside was loud enough to recognise as Vivaldi even through the closed door. In all likelihood it would drown out the sound of his knock but he allowed her a minute to answer regardless. According to the butler, she was ready and waiting. According to Amanda's mission accomplished text, she had the perfect dress, shoes, hairstyle.

  Frankly, he'd expected more resistance. To the shopping expedition and to attending tonight's gala on his arm. Driving in from the airport he'd thought about the upcoming clash of words and wills with much expectation and some impatience. The twenty-four hours since he'd last seen her seemed infinitely longer and he'd stretched it another thirty minutes to shower, shave and dress. Dinner suit, black tie, standard for these events he was compelled to attend.

  Tonight was different. For once he didn't feel compelled. His body hummed with anticipation as he knocked once again. Then, done with waiting, he opened the door.

  The sitting room was filled with the music's liquid notes and all the signs of a successful shopping expedition. Carrier bags, several pairs of abandoned shoes, a jewelled evening bag that caught the chandelier's sparkle and flung the light in a score of new directions. 

  But no Isabelle.

  The door to her bedroom lay open and through the concerto's diminuendo he caught the sparkling notes of laughter. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and his body quickened with recognition. It was her voice that caused both reactions, although Francesca's was there in the background, no doubt spurring the laughter as she so often did.

  Scooping up a discarded shoe from his path, he started across the room only to come to a stonewall halt when Isabelle hurried into view.  Her head was turned as she flung a last comment back at her sister, and she didn't see him for several thick heartbeats. It was enough time for him to take in the picture--and, dios, what a picture she made--and to pick his jaw up from the floor.

  She turned, the laughter still in her eyes even as it died on her lips. She stopped. Blinked once. "You're here."

  "So it would appear," he said.

  The first impact had been all about her--the expanse of creamy skin, the ripple of her hair as she turned, the stimulating stroke of her laughter.

  Now he took stock of the rest with a long, leisurely appraisal. Her dress, a column of scarlet. The fabric, soft and lustrous, cut and draped to make the most of her sensational figure. The rise of her breasts as she drew a breath, the shadow of cleavage that disappeared from view as she lifted a hand to the low-cut neckline.

  At the other end the dress pooled over her feet to the carpet. Not quite ready and waiting. He held up the shoe in his hand. "Yours?"

  "Yours," she replied, not echoing his question but answering it. The proud set of her chin let him know her meaning. She wasn't accepting his purchases. They would be worn; they would remain his property.

  Their gazes met and held, a current of energy arcing between them. A new edge sharpened Cristo's anticipation. A knowledge that despite her stance and her words, she felt the same crackle of awareness. The same charged heat in her blood.

  This was the Isabelle whose company he relished. The one who stood her ground, who met his gaze with steady strength to state her case.  

  Eyes locked on hers, he slowly closed the space between them. "If this is mine," he said, holding the delicate silvery straps in one hand and tapping the spiked heel against the palm of his other, "then do I get to put it on your foot, Cinderbella?"

  At his play on her name, irritation flashed in her eyes. But before she could voice her objection, Francesca appeared in the doorway.

  "Cheating," she said shortly, indicating the shoe with a wave of her hand. "Obviously that will be a perfect fit, given you bought it for her."

  "Spoilsport."

  "Not really," Francesca said. "Since I'm about to leave you to whatever sport you have in mind."

  That earned an appreciative grin from Cristo and a cutting glare from her sister. "There's no need," she said briskly. "Once I put on the shoes, we'll be leaving too."

  "Then I will see you downstairs," Francesca replied. "I'm off to check out the coach and horses."

  The door closed with a hollow thud, shutting them off. Alone. Their eyes met briefly as he handed her the shoe. "No coach," he told her. "Just the Maybach."

  "Chessie likes to wind me up."

  "Is Cinderella a hot button?" he asked.

  "A warm one," she said, collecting the second shoe before sliding them both onto her feet. Three inches taller, she straightened and met his eyes. "Given my job, it's an old joke. Usually I pay it no mind."

  "You think that tonight there is a reason to pay it mind?"

  "The shopping, this dress, it's all a bit much."

  "No, the dress is not too much," he countered softly. "In fact it is precisely as I requested."

  Her gaze sharpened on his, a frown tugging her newly shaped eyebrows together. "You gave Amanda specific instructions on how to dress me?"

  Cristo hitched a shoulder. "General rather than specific."

  "Such as?"

  "I requested a dress that would enhance your beauty, not overwhelm it. This--" his voice dropped with his gaze, taking in the flutter of pulse at the base of her throat and the rosy flush in her exposed skin "--is almost perfect."

  "Almost?" She stared at him, her expression a perfect blend of confusion and indignation. "The price you paid, there should not be anything lacking!"

  "Just this one thing."

  With a deft hand he fished a necklace from his inside pocket. Three rows of pearls fashioned into a contemporary choker, the piece was classic, simple perfection. Perfect for the dress, perfect for Isabelle.

  "No." Her hand came up to her throat in a protective gesture as she took a step back. "I told Amanda, the dress is enough. I don't need any jewellery."

  "So she said, but I disagree."

  "It's too much."

  "Let me be the judge," he said, taking back the space she'd put between them and a little more. "Turn around," he said softly.

  For a wilful second she stood her ground, shoulders squared, gaze fixed steadily on his. "Jewellery was not in the deal."

  "Nor, as I recall, was hair or makeup."

  Her eyes widened slightly. "If you object--"

  "No, I approve."

  "Good," she said darkly. "You paid enough for those as well."

  "Good," he retorted, smothering a smile. "I hope you gained some measure of enjoyment at my expense."

  "You could have saved yourself a lot of money by sending me and Chessie."

  "Would you have gone?" he asked, circling around her, taking in the dress from all angles. "And would you have chosen this dress?"

  "No, there was this smoky grey one with--"

  "I hate grey."

  "I know."

  Cristo laughed and her frown darkened with annoyance. "If you mean to irritate me, you will have to do better than that," he said softly. "I am in far too accommodating a mood."

  "Your meeting in Spain, did that go well?"

  That emergency seemed a lifetime ago. He'd solved it. He'd moved on. Now he wanted to concentrate on her. "Better than expected," he said, turning his focus to the tense set of her shoulders and the tumble of honey gold hair that, although newly cut, still hit her shoulder blades. He gathered the glossy curls in one hand, baring her nape, releasing a subtle fragrance from hair and skin.

  He hoped he'd wiped Spain and business from both their minds, but just in case he leaned forward to inhale the scent of warm honey and nectarine blossom and female skin. "Nice," he murmured.

  "It's Jo Malone," she said faintly. "Amanda insisted."

  "I must remember to thank her."

  He pushed her hair forward over one shoulder and took his time sliding the pearls around her throat, absorbing the lightning spark of contact as his fingers brushed her skin. He may have imagined her quicksilver shiver of response. He did not imagine the heat rushing south in his blood.

  The necklace clasp was a kindergarten task. Cristo could have managed it in the dark at any other time, but not on Isabelle's neck. His fingers preferred to linger on her skin, his gaze on the vulnerable curve beneath her ear. The temptation to lean forward, to press a kiss to that precise spot, sang with the violins in the air.

  "We will never get there at this rate," she murmured, but the breathy catch in her voice was not impatience. And it spoke straight to his gathering arousal. "Let me get it."

  "I wish," he murmured gruffly. Then, when she squirmed beneath his hands, "Hold still."

  The catch clicked shut, but the temptation remained. He leaned close, pressed open lips to silky skin, and she leaped forward as if stung. Her hair whipped around her shoulders as she turned, but when her gaze fastened on his something palpable churned between them. Awareness, knowledge, desire.

  Her nostrils flared slightly and whatever admonishment she'd been about to lay on him froze on her parted lips. One hand lifted, fingertips to the pearls. "Thank you," was all she said.

  "My pleasure."

  Cristo could have pursued the mood, could have pushed the energy swirling like the lush orchestral notes between them, but they were already late. The whole evening stretched ahead, a feast of Isabelle, a smorgasbord of opportunity.

  "Ready?"

  She nodded and gathered her bag. Then her gaze caught the time on the mantle clock and the frown rushed back full tilt. "Will we be very late?" she fretted.

  "Fashionably. Which could work for the better," he mused with a lazy smile.

  "How is that?"

  "We will be noticed, tongues will wag," he replied, taking her hand. "Arriving together, hand in hand, your hair slightly dishevelled. That should address any concerns about the credibility of our relationship, don't you think?"