Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (4 page)

“I don't have anything but jeans.”

“Which will be fine for where we're going.”

“We?”

In the process of refilling his coffee, he paused to capture her startled gaze. His was heavy-lidded, dark and languorous like his voice. “Did I not make myself clear? You, Isabelle, are driving me to Geelong.”

No, that had not been clear, and looking into his unapologetic eyes she sensed that he knew it. What she didn't understand was why, and perhaps that showed in her face.

“I spent most of the last few nights on the phone and computer, working London hours. If I happen to doze off today, I would prefer that I were not behind the wheel.”

“I can find you a professional driver,” she suggested, searching for a way out.

“Why would I want a professional when I have you, Isabelle?” He unfolded his long frame and pushed to his feet. A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes. “There is no need to look so put-upon. In return for your chauffeuring duties, I am taking you to lunch at this restaurant you speak so highly of.”

“I can't go to lunch with you,” she choked out.

“Why not? Do you suspect I have ulterior motives? Is that why you questioned my reason for hiring you?” His gaze narrowed on the guilty heat flooding her face, and his voice dropped to a low, insulted tone. “What, exactly, do you think I am paying you for, Isabelle?”

“No, not that,” she responded swiftly, but the warmth seeped from her face into her flesh as his meaning took vivid root in her imagination. “I don't expect you would ever need to pay.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I mean for a woman's company…to coax a woman to spend time in your company.” Could she make a worse hash of explaining herself? She drew a deep breath and, avoiding the intent interest—and some amusement—in his eyes, smoothed her hands down her thighs before continuing in a
less flustered tone. “You know what I mean, but that isn't why I'm squeamish about going to lunch with you.”

“So, there is another reason?”

“I am the housekeeper.”

“My housekeeper,” he corrected, “who stated that she isn't doing enough to earn her pay. To make up for that, I have appointed you as my driver for today. Since I will be stopping for lunch, I am asking you to join me. If it helps, perhaps you can consider it professional development.”

“I
s the menu not up to your expectations, Isabelle?”

In the hours spent crossing the bay by ferry, driving to the Armitage polo stables and then returning to the restaurant, Cristo hadn't dozed off in the passenger seat. He'd pressed his driver-for-the-day into conversation, asking about the sites they passed, about the local foods and wines, about driving and the rented Porsche that had caused her much I-can't-drive-this! trepidation at first. Deliberate topics that weren't too personal, that encouraged her to drop the professional reticence and relax in his company, and with her occupied behind the wheel Cristo was able to study the fine nuances of her expression. She gave away a lot with the set of her brows, by holding her mouth a certain way, or by distractedly chewing at her bottom lip.

“The menu is wonderful,” she said now in answer to his question, but Cristo shook his head.

“You say it's wonderful, but you were worrying away at your lip—” he tapped a finger against his own bottom lip, indicating the exact spot where she habitually snagged the plushest point of hers “—just there.”

“That is lack of orthodontic intervention, not a critique of the menu.”

Cristo laughed softly at her quick answer. She'd surprised him many times this morning with her sharp observations once he'd encouraged her to say what she thought rather than what she thought was expected. The biggest surprise: how much he liked the real Isabelle he saw emerging from behind the polite, professional housekeeper. “In which case I applaud the lack of intervention.”

“You prefer crooked teeth?” she asked, eyebrows rising with scepticism.

“Imperfections lend a face interest.”

For a second she stared back at him. Then she shook her head, just once, and expelled an incredulous breath. “Suggesting that someone has an
interesting
face is not exactly flattering.”

“And here I was thinking you would scoff at flattery,” Cristo countered idly, but when their eyes met and held he sensed a new element in her regard. Surprise at his observation, yes, but also an acknowledgement that bordered on approval. For the first time he felt her honest response to him as a man, and he allowed himself to enjoy the elemental attraction that buzzed between them in that rare unguarded moment.

No harm, he told himself, since he fully intended to use that attraction to his own ends. “You strike me as a straightforward woman,” he said.

“A straightforward woman with crooked teeth.”

Entertained by the quick comeback, Cristo lolled back in his chair and allowed his gaze to drift to her lips. Full, plush,
unenhanced by any cosmetic products as far as he could tell. And their softened set revealed a hint of those not-quite-straight teeth that he found so unexpectedly appealing. “You don't find flaws interesting?” he asked.

“That would depend on the story behind the flaw. My teeth, for example—” her tongue appeared to trace their underside, an innocent gesture that caused a not-so-innocent stirring low in Cristo's body “—just grew this way. Nothing of interest there.”

“Your opinion.”

Their gazes linked again, a moment longer, a spark warmer. “Is there a story behind your broken nose?” she asked.

“Not a particularly interesting one.”

“Your opinion.”

This time he laughed out loud. She was sharp. The kind of woman he would take a keen interest in pursuing, if she were any other woman. “The result of a fall from a horse,” he admitted.

“You're kidding!”

He favoured her with an amused look. “If I intended inventing a tale, I would make it a trifle more heroic…or at least wild and daring. Sadly, it was the result of my backside and saddle parting company.”

“After watching your b…
you,
” she corrected hastily, “this morning, I couldn't imagine you ever parting company with your saddle.”

“So, you
were
watching.”

Primitive male satisfaction drummed through Cristo as he observed the pretty flush that rose from her throat and into her face. “Yes,” she admitted, “but I know nothing about polo. I didn't know you call the horses you ride ponies, for example.” Then, after a beat of pause, “I suppose you were born with a silver polo stick in your hand.”

Cristo laughed, low and genuinely entertained. “Not quite.
My father played professionally, so I was born with the scent of hay and horsehair in my blood if not quite wielding a mallet. I doubt my mother would have allowed that.”

“She isn't into polo?”

“She had a passing fascination with the men who played,” he supplied dryly. “Something about the Argentinean flair, I believe.”

“I see.”

The words were drawn out, thoughtful, and Cristo's gaze narrowed on hers. “What is it that you see, Isabelle?”

“Your name, your looks…I thought you might be Italian.”

“Partly, although those genes are from my mother.”

“She's Italian?”

“Vivi is half Italian, half English. All crazy.”

Her eyes livened with interest, but he saw her rein that curiosity in. Her lips pressed together in self-restraint. Because family interest was getting too personal?

Too bad, Isabelle Browne. As far as personal goes, I'm only getting started.

“My father is Argentinean,” he said, continuing from where he'd left off. Selective pieces of his personal story would serve as encouragement for when he zeroed in on hers. “Although my mother's second husband was more of a father to me.”

“Is he English?” she asked after a moment, giving in to the curiosity that glowed bright in her eyes.

“Proudly. When he promoted Chisholm Air internationally, Alistair played shamelessly on every cliché of the English aristocracy.”

“Alistair Chisholm,” she asked with rising wonderment, “is your stepfather?”

“Was.”

“Of course, I read about his death in the papers. I'm sorry.”

“As am I,” Cristo said. “My mother's best choice of husbands by far.”

“So, you moved from Argentina to England?” she asked after a moment's reflection.

“And then to Italy after my mother's third marriage, and then back to my father's estancia for several years. That's where this happened.”

He grazed a thumb lazily down the slope of his nose, saw Isabelle follow the action with reluctant interest in her eyes. She moistened her lips. “How?”

“On a dare from my brother, I took on an unbroken mare with an evil nature. Evil won.”

“Machismo,” she intoned, although the disapproving tone didn't quite ring true. Not with inquisitive interest glowing bright in her eyes. “Serves you right.”

“The pain to my pride was considerable, but the sympathy I received more than made up for it.”

“Female sympathy, I presume.”

Cristo grinned lazily. “Is there any other kind?”

She let go a laugh full of disbelief, yet it still managed to slide under his skin. Beyond the nimbus of her hair—at some point of the morning the thick curls had sprung free of their usual ponytail restraint—he saw their waitress approaching, but he delayed her with the barest of signals. “What about you, Isabelle Browne with an
e,
” he asked, deliberately choosing the phrase Hugh had quoted from her phone call. But he saw nothing in her eyes except lively amusement. “Have you lived around here for a long time?”

“I've lived in Melbourne most of my life, and here on the peninsula for the past six years.”

“You really are a local.”

“Yep.” The smile in her eyes teased the corners of her mouth and tickled his libido. “In the past twenty years I haven't been any farther than one holiday to Bali.”

“You have no ambition to see the world?”

“Oh, I'd love to travel, but I'm afraid that ambition has been put on hold. At the moment I have other priorities.”

She spoke evenly, furnishing the information with matter-of-fact ease, but there was something going on behind her eyes and a tension in the edges of her smile.
Other priorities.
That could encompass a multitude of possibilities, but one blared loud in Cristo's mind.

Pregnancy.

The reminder of what had brought them to this place, this conversation, chilled the relaxed heat in his veins. He'd not forgotten his purpose, but he'd allowed his enjoyment of her company to colour his perception. No more. Straightening in his seat, he signalled the waitress. “We should order. What do you fancy?”

The worry creases between her brows deepened as she scanned the menu again. “Everything is so…much.”

Everything was exactly as she'd described it that morning—simple ingredients, with a twist. “Do you mean the prices?” he asked, taking a second look before shrugging dismissively. “Compared with London, these are modest.”

“Perhaps for you,” she murmured.

“Since I'm paying, let's not make it a problem for you.” He reached across and removed the menu from her hand. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled at the waitress. “What do you recommend, Kate?”

He took control of the ordering with the confident command Isabelle expected of a man from his background. Polo, wealth, privilege. Argentina, England, Italy. No wonder
he'd struck her as exotic and expensive. Little wonder he'd taken zero-point-five seconds to charm the waitress, Kate, into a flirtatious smile. The pretty redhead had tripped over herself to assist with wine-matching recommendations along with the food choices.

This all served as a sobering reminder to Isabelle of the vast chasm in their circumstances. The kick she felt low in her belly when he looked at her a certain way, when he laughed at something she'd said, when he'd placed a hand low on her back to usher her toward their table—she wasn't used to having a delicious man like Cristo Verón pay attention to her. As he'd pointed out, she was not the type to respond to flattery. Not that she couldn't enjoy the experience, but she was too sensible to forget her place.

This was work, and she took the opportunity to reinforce that fact when the wine arrived. Even after saying she would be sticking to water, Cristo plucked the bottle from the ice bucket with an aim to pouring for her. She placed her hand over the glass and fixed him with a steady look. “I haven't changed my mind.”

Apparently he took that as a challenge, because his gaze narrowed on hers. “You do not like my choice?”

“I'm sure it is a very fine choice—” after all of the confab between him and Kate, how could it not be? “—but I don't drink when I'm working.”

“Surely one glass would not hurt.”

“Surely you don't mean to tempt me when I'm acting as your driver.”

For a long moment their gazes clashed, and she wondered if the dark intensity of his was a response to being thwarted. She couldn't imagine he heard
no
too often. But he did put down the wine, and in his eyes she read a measure of respect. “You do take your job seriously, don't you?”

“Of course,” she replied briskly, sitting up straighter and folding her hands neatly in her lap as some sort of counterfoil to the pleasure his approval generated. “At Your Service would not employ me if I didn't.”

“Do you like the job?”

“It's a good job.”

“But do you
like
it?” he countered, his subtle emphasis demonstrating the distinction between the question he asked and the one she had answered.

“There are aspects I like very much and some I don't,” she said carefully. “As with any job, I imagine.”

Their starters arrived, and Isabelle was distracted by the plump prawns dressed in lime and hazelnut. She leaned closer to inhale the flavours and struggled not to drool.

“The cooking, I gather, is the part you like.”

His insight brought her gaze up from her plate, and she didn't bother hiding her smile or the pleasure in her eyes. “You noticed.”

“Impossible not to,” he said, his mouth slanting into a responsive smile. “If food is your passion, then why do you not cook as a career?”

“Perhaps I would if I could work somewhere like this.”

“And you can't…why?”

“Because they're rather selective,” she said dryly, “and I don't have the training or qualifications.”

“You could put together excellent references from your boss and clients, I imagine. If that is the direction you wished to take.”

Isabelle's brow creased into a frown as she played her fork through her dish. How had he managed to home in on the exact question Chessie had been nagging her about for the past year? A question she'd been considering herself until her options had taken on new restrictions. “There is nothing
wrong with being a housekeeper, and what I'm doing for At Your Service includes a lot of cooking in brilliantly equipped kitchens.” Then, because her chest was tightening with the anxiety that came from thinking of the future and how she would cope, she had to lighten the mood. “Plus the pay and tips can be brilliant, as well.”