Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress (14 page)

“I suppose you're put out about the bridesmaid thing, but honestly I had no choice. I needed someone who would fit into the dress without major alterations. I was going to ask Madeleine, but I couldn't risk pairing her with Alejandro in the wedding party. You know what those two are like together,” she said with an audible shudder. “But Isabelle is perfect.”

Cristo swore softly. “As a replacement bridesmaid?”

“Harry's sister took a tumble from a horse. She's broken her collarbone and banged up her shoulder. Gia said she'll be fine by Saturday, that she'll do it with her arm in a sling, but her mother won't hear of it, and Vivi agrees. She suggested Isabelle as a replacement, and for once she has got it right!”

“Did Isabelle have any say in this?”

“She took some convincing,” Amanda admitted. “She was talking about not coming to the wedding at all, and I rather gather that's because of you. Are you afraid she'll get ideas?”

“No,” he said sharply, remembering with a flash of irritation how she'd coolly told him he had nothing to worry about on that score. “Isabelle is far too sensible for that.”

“She is sensible, isn't she, and very capable. I suspect she is the queen of organization. I wish she'd been around to help me plan the wedding. She is going to speak to the caterers tomorrow, just to make sure everything's sorted. Oh, and she's arranged for Vivi to have a facial at Aylesbury while she's
doing that, so she is also smart, your Isabelle. You should not let her get away!”

Cristo had spent the past week getting to know
his
Isabelle; he did not need his family's approval. Nor did he need her virtues spelled out, especially not in such a heavy-handed, she's-the-perfect-woman-for-you fashion. “I give you enough latitude in other areas,” he told Amanda sternly, “but my love life is off-limits.”

“Well, yes, but it concerns me that she says she is returning to Australia. Even though Bill and Gabrielle Thompson offered her a job.”

Cristo went cold. He knew nothing of this job offer from a high-profile professional couple, nothing about any future decisions. During the past week, they'd skirted around that topic; he'd assumed she would wait until Francesca's plans were decided before looking ahead.

Yet she'd discussed this with his sister?

His antsiness snarled into more, and his tense silence was enough encouragement for Amanda to keep on talking. “I only know because we ran into them outside the Ritz tonight. Apparently Isabelle worked for them when they were in Australia last year, and they said to call them whenever she wanted a change of location. When they saw her here, they immediately made a firm offer, but she said she was going back to Australia.”

“That's her home,” Cristo said shortly, but as he ended the call he felt hollow. Cold. Impotent being so far away and unable to speak to Isabelle. Suddenly the Antovic contract didn't matter as much as being where he needed to be. Home. With Isabelle. Sheltering her from his ravenous family and convincing her to remain after the wedding.

I
sabelle didn't remember agreeing to the bridesmaid gig, yet here she stood in a fairy-tale concoction of shimmering pink with lace and pearl embellishments. Apparently she and Georgina Harrington were a similar size and shape, and the gown was sent with accessories to Chisholm Park. By chauffeured limousine. The only transportation more fitting would have been a horse-drawn glass coach.

“I can give you a tad more room here,” Vivi decided, tugging somewhere in the back where Isabelle couldn't see. Nor did she care; she was more interested in the concept of Vivi doing the work. So far she'd been very adept at making work and offering suggestions—Isabelle as bridesmaid, for example—but not so big on the doing.

“Do you sew?” she asked.

Vivi's perfectly made-up face appeared from beyond the gown's voluminous skirt. “Beautifully,” she said with the
trademark family confidence. “I did my apprenticeship on Savile Row. That is where I met my first two husbands.”

Isabelle tried not to look too astonished, but failed dismally. “Not both at the same time, I hope.”

Vivi laughed, then sat back on her heels. “If Alistair had been in the same room as Juan Verón I would not have noticed him, and that would have been an immense shame.” Her eyes met Isabelle's in the mirror. “All the good in Cristo, that is from Alistair. He was a good, good man. Too good for me.”

Afraid that everything she felt might show in her eyes, Isabelle let her gaze drop away in feigned contemplation of the gown's adjusted fit. Over the past days she'd grown adept at parrying Vivi's questions and avoiding the deeply personal, but now she was trapped in weighty folds of pearl-encrusted taffeta and by the new gravity in the woman's dark eyes. There was no escape.

“I am not all bad,” Vivi continued, “but I have made some impulsive decisions that were not always in my family's best interests. My heart is in a rush and I am a selfish woman. When I left Juan, he did not want me to take a thing.”

Isabelle knew she wasn't talking about fripperies. She knew but she had to ask.

“Not even your children?”

“I tried to take my sons, but Alejandro ran away. I had to make a choice, you see, to leave with one son or to take Cristo back to his father and leave with none. Cristo did not understand why he had to leave his home and his brother—he hated this ugly, grey country. But I hoped that this one time, my selfish heart made the right choice.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I suspect that Cristo will not, and I want you to understand.” From her seat on the floor, Vivi reached up and
touched Isabelle's hand. “He is everything that you see and he is so much more, Isabelle, with so much love to give. Yet I fear that I have spoiled his view of love and marriage. He is a man and so he is stubborn. He is my son and so he is a cynic. If you love him, Isabelle, you need to know this. That is all.”

 

After completing the alteration, Vivi and her copious luggage left for Sussex. Chisholm Park seemed cavernous and empty and as she awaited Chessie's arrival, Isabelle found herself with too much time for reflection. Too much time to chew over the implications of what she'd learned from Vivi…and to fill in the gaps.

Vivi hadn't mentioned the marriages after her first two, and how those upheavals in her household had affected Cristo. Every time Vivi followed her selfish heart to a new man, her child also had to follow. To a new home, a new country, into the care of strangers. How could he not equate falling in love with disruption and change and loss, all inextricably linked? Could a belief entrenched from such an early age be overturned, especially by a man with no need to change? He had so much that he loved already—his business, his home, his horses, his family—how could he possibly want for more?

And beneath the flickering doubt in Isabelle's heart, a new hurt burgeoned. He hadn't shared much of his life at all. Despite all the time they'd spent together, all the long walks and pillow conversations, she had only grazed the surface of his past.

Walking and thinking brought Isabelle to her bedroom, the one she'd taken the first night she arrived at Chisholm Park and where she'd eventually unpacked and stored her things. She'd only slept here the one night, but maintaining the pretence of her own room had been her safety net. She'd used it after Vivi's arrival, when she'd been spooked by the re
minder of this family's wealth and position. When she'd needed a hole to scamper to. This is where Cristo had found her afterward, when he'd wanted to send her away and she'd resisted. When she'd chosen to block out the message he'd delivered so clearly in words and in action.

In two days her commitment to Cristo and his family would end. It was time to start thinking about her future. Time to call Miriam to confirm her next position, time to pack her bags. The fairy tale was over.

 

Cristo returned to find his home as he liked it—blessedly free of uninvited guests. On her way out the door, Meredith confirmed that his mother had departed after lunch. Isabelle was upstairs packing. “Happy to be home?” she asked.

“You have no idea.”

With the remnants of shattered tension shooting through his blood, Cristo longed to bound up the stairs, but the power of that desire lent him restraint. Wanting this strongly did not sit comfortably, but he'd not examined the reasons. He would convince Isabelle to stay; that was all that mattered.

Packing meant the room she'd insisted on keeping, and that's where Cristo found her…or at least the signs of her presence. The plain black suitcase she'd brought from Australia sat open on the bed, several neat piles of clothes beside it. Something about that innocent sight sat wrong, and by the time he'd prowled around the bed and inspected the partially packed bag he knew why.

He picked up white cotton underwear he'd never seen before, fingering the soft fabric as he inspected the rest of the contents. Everything was plain, clean, serviceable. No lace bras or silk camisoles or sheer panties. He saw nothing of
what he'd bought her from Nina, nothing that looked suitable for the wedding weekend.

Sensing her imminent arrival, his head came up as though tugged on strings of anticipation. She stopped on the threshold to the bathroom. Her deepwater eyes widened with surprise and a fleeting glimpse of pleasure. He hated how she shut that down. How she limited her smile to a tentative welcome.

“I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow,” she said.

“Is that why you're packing?”

Her gaze slid away to the suitcase, and she shrugged slightly as she came into the room. “I was feeling a bit lost, actually, and I decided to get a start on. I wasn't sure what time we'd be leaving tomorrow.”

“Unusual choices for a wedding,” he said, running his hand across a stack of T-shirts.

“This is my own stuff.”

“I can see that.”

“For when I leave here.”

A simple exchange, it should not have been incendiary. But her cool, calm manner as she picked up the panties he'd discarded and placed them back in the case acted like gasoline on the fire of Cristo's mood. “Tell me about that,” he said, folding his arms across his chest and narrowing his gaze on her carefully composed face. “When are you leaving?”

“That depends on Chessie, but after the wedding. I spoke to Miriam today, and she has a job for me next weekend.”

“What about the job with Bill and Gabrielle Thompson?”

Shock flared in her eyes. She blinked it away. “How did you know about…” She puffed out a breath. “Amanda. It doesn't matter. I'm not taking it.”

“Why not?” he persisted, shifting his body to block her
attempt to turn away. “What if your sister stays in England to have her baby? Have you considered that possibility?”

“It's one possibility, but I can't make plans based on maybes. Nor can I risk my current job.”

“As a housekeeper.”

Isabelle's head came up. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply.

“I mean it's a job you can get anywhere, with any service or any number of private clients, as demonstrated by the Thompsons' offer.”

Irritated and ridiculously hurt by his put-down of her job, Isabelle struggled to maintain her composure. This could decline into a clash of tempers too easily—she'd sensed him spoiling for a fight the instant she came out of the bathroom—and the recognition of her feelings and the continuing flutter of hope that he might yet return them had her on an emotional edge. She could not do verbal sparring right now. Not without the risk of revealing too much.

“I have a home in Melbourne,” she said with admirable calm.

“You could have a home here.”

Despite every good intention, her stomach clenched with longing. “Are you saying that you want me to stay?”

“Yes,” he said staunchly. “I am.”

“And do what?”
This was long term, not a weekend, not an extra week of a fairy-tale affair. This was real life, and she had to be sure; she had to nail down the details of that reality.
“If I took a job with the Thompsons, for example, I would be expected to live in and to travel with them. And when you or Vivi or Amanda came to one of their dinner parties, I would be greeting you at the door and serving your meal. Is that how—”

“No.” His head came up a fraction, his nostrils flared and
his eyes flashed with primitive fire. “You won't be living in with these people, and I want you by my side at the table.”

“What are you asking?” she managed, her voice husky and barely audible above the singing of joy in her ears.

“That you stay here with me.”

Isabelle moistened her dry lips. “I have no money, no income…”

“You don't need any. I will give you whatever you need.”

He took her by the shoulders, brought her close enough to feel the lure of his body heat, and the temptation to yield was ever so strong and wrong, so wrong. Sucking in a breath, Isabelle steeled her shoulders and her willpower. “You are asking me to stay as your mistress, all expenses paid.” She saw the truth of that in his eyes, felt the dismay like a punch in her stomach. “What will I do all day while you're working and travelling? Do I go to the spa, make myself beautiful, wait for you to bring me home jewellery and more fancy clothes?”

“You enjoy the stables. You can help Chloe and continue your polo lessons.”

“That's a holiday, Cristo, not a life.”

For a long moment she held his gaze without wavering, absorbing the reflexive tightening of his grip and the hardening of his black-eyed glare. Then she turned abruptly within his hold, breaking his grip and allowing herself a brief respite as she fumbled blindly with her clothes. What a fool she was to have expected more.

“What are you angling for, Isabelle? A proposal?”

His voice was low, flat, but every hair on the back of her neck stood up. She should have denied it, shouldn't have taken so long to respond, and when it came her laughter sounded brittle and unconvincing. “Of course not. I've known you less than a month.”

“Some women believe that is enough time. They mistake lust for love.”

Isabelle's shoulders tightened. The injustice of that comparison snapped in her eyes and her voice as she turned back to face him. “Some women might, but I am not Vivi. I do know the difference, Cristo, and I do not expect a proposal from you.”

“Not even a proposal that we continue our current arrangement? If you prefer, I can get you a place of your own.”

“Thank you, but no. This was always temporary—a weekend, a week, until the wedding. I want to keep my job and a shred of pride,” she said. “I cannot do that as a kept woman. Now, please, let me finish packing.”

Everything inside Cristo screamed
no.
He wanted to bend her to his will, make her see reason, wipe the frosty control from her face, but what else could he offer? How could he make her stay? If she had faced him with defiance or counterdemands he would know how to argue, how to respond, but he did not know how to deal with such a simple, composed request.

Let me finish packing.

He turned away, took several steps before his gaze fastened on the contents beyond the open closet doors. The red gown she'd worn to the gala. A heather-grey jacket she'd worn the night they walked to the pub. The bright sundress he'd slipped hands and mouth beneath, the day they'd picnicked by the lake.

When he heard the quiet snap of her suitcase closing, Cristo saw red. “You have forgotten these.” In six quick strides he'd snatched up all the hangers. He tossed them on the bed. Returned to open drawers, gathering underwear and shoes and bags, everything he had bought for her.

“Stop,” she said, the single word wrenched from her throat with the first uncensored emotion he'd heard all afternoon.
Horrified, she watched him dump another bundle on the bed. “Stop it, I said!”

“All yours, Isabelle. Consider them perks of the job.”