Книга - Confessions of a Millionaire’s Mistress

Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress
Robyn Grady


Saying ‘Oh, yes! ’ to the millionaire… When Celeste Prince discovers her beloved family business has been sold to millionaire Benton Scott, she’s determined to get it back. But gorgeous Benton sets her pulse racing, and her carefully laid plans lead her to just one place…his bed!Benton makes it clear right from the start that he can’t offer more than a steamy affair. The passion is scorching – but Ben’s emotions are still in the deep freeze, and Celeste knows that only a dramatic collision course with his troubled past can thaw them…







From way below, the countdowndrifted up.

His fingers laced with hers as his face, dramatically cut in the light and shadow, came close. ‘I’ve wanted to do this all night.’

Five, four, three…

How to react? What to say? She wanted his kiss. But how much, or little, did he want from her?

A roar of ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR’ went up, and the sky erupted with loud bursts of colour-filled stars. While thunderous cracks exploded all around, his hand, joined with hers, wound around her back and tugged her in.

His physical presence was so strong she could barely catch her breath, let alone think. His hand on the small of her back urged her closer. ‘Stay the night.’

She groaned. ‘I—I…I’m not sure.’

He smiled. ‘Guess I’ll have to convince you.’ His lips tasted hers, tender and coaxing. ‘Happy…’ another, longer taste ‘… New…’

Cupping her jaw, he kissed her slow and deep, with a scorching knowledge and a soul-filled necessity that she’d dreamed of every night for weeks. When their mouths gently parted, he didn’t say Year.

Instead she sighed and said, ‘Yes…’


One Christmas long ago, Robyn Grady received a book from her big sister and immediately fell in love with Cinderella. Sprinklings of magic, deepest wishes come true—she was hooked! Picture books with glass slippers later gave way to romance novels and, more recently, the real-life dream of writing for Mills & Boon.

After a fifteen-year career in television, Robyn met her own modern-day hero. They live on Australia’s Sunshine Coast with their three little princesses, two poodles and a cat called Tinkie. She loves new shoes, worn jeans, lunches at Moffat Beach and hanging out with her friends on eHarlequin. Learn about her latest releases at www.robyngrady.com and don’t forget to say hi. She’d love to hear from you!



Dear Reader

Our species has waged the Battle of the Sexes since Adam and Eve. Over time the fight has been played out on many fields—domestic, political, business, and don’t forget the bedroom. But what of the victories?

In the twenty-first century some might say it’s unclear whether women have found equality or have only succeeded in making the parameters for debate wider and less defined.

In CONFESSIONS OF A MILLIONAIRE’S MISTRESS, Celeste Prince wants to prove to the ghosts of her past that today’s woman should never be ashamed of her intelligence or her resources—particularly when faced with a man who exudes an air of superiority as well as bone-melting sensual charm.

But can women have it all…career, family, as well as an evenly balanced commitment to love? Or is compromise still a word only women know how to spell? I hope you enjoy Celeste and Benton Scott’s journey towards their happily-ever-after. On both sides there are lessons in love to be learned, and understandings of themselves and each other to be reached.

My very best wishes in Mills & Boon’s celebrated centenary year. Long live romance!

Robyn




CONFESSIONS OF A MILLIONAIRE’S MISTRESS


BY

ROBYN GRADY




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Mim and Jack for their wonderful inspiration.

With many thanks to my editor Kimberley Young, for her encouragement and support, and Bryony Green for her fabulous suggestions.


CHAPTER ONE

‘TRY to stay calm, but Mr Terrific-in-a-tux over there is undressing you with his eyes.’

Celeste Prince quietly grabbed her friend’s arm and forced her to look away too.

‘For heaven’s sake, Brooke,’ Celeste hissed under her breath, ‘don’t encourage him.’

Yes, the sexy stranger who’d just arrived was beyond intriguing. Neat dark hair, strong shadowed jaw, beautiful big shoulders that left her feeling a little weak at the knees. Superior specimens like that didn’t magically appear every day. But, damn it, tonight she didn’t need the distraction.

Over a hundred guests, all shimmering and crisp in their after-five wear, had gathered at the behest of Australia’s franchise genius, Rodney Prince, to celebrate his company’s twentieth successful year. But this soirée meant far more to Celeste than just another party. Tonight her father planned to step down as head of Prince Landscape Maintenance and hand over the Sydney empire’s reins to his only child.

After her mother’s death fifteen years ago, her dad had withdrawn from everything but business and they’d drifted apart. How she’d waited for this moment—the chance to be visible in his world again and make both her parents proud. Nothing mattered more.

Not even meeting that tall, dark, delectable dream.

Buckling, Celeste dared one more glance from beneath her lashes.

The stranger was leaning against a French door jamb, this side of the mansion’s manicured courtyard. As his hand slid into his pocket his left leg bent and the ledge of those shoulders, magnificent in a white dinner jacket, slanted into a casual but confident pose. He was handsome in a rugged yet refined way, a toned powerhouse cloaked in classic Armani. However, his eyes mesmerised her the most…seductive pools of vibrant blue light. Captivating.

Aware.

Smiling straight into hers.

A bevy of exquisite tingles raced over her skin and she spun away again. Still she felt his heated gaze caressing her back, stroking her arms, slipping the satin straps from her shoulders, easing the dress all the way down…

Brooke tipped closer. ‘Who do you think he is?’

Celeste tossed back a mouthful of chilled champagne. Her throat was suddenly parched. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t care.’

She needed to concentrate on reciting her acceptance speech without her cheeks turning into torches and her tongue tying itself in knots. “Stuttering Celeste” rarely made an appearance these days. After years of torment in junior school, she’d learned to slow down, think ahead and ease her way through most situations—even something as overwhelming as tonight.

Brooke arched a brow. ‘You don’t care, huh?’ With one arm crossed beneath her gown’s scarlet bodice, she rested her champagne flute near her cheek. ‘We went through high school together, backpacked Europe together. Never once have I seen you this cagey over a man.’

Celeste couldn’t smother a grin. ‘Let’s face it… he’s not just any man.’

Drawn again, she glanced over a hitched shoulder. Like a cool-headed hit man, now the stranger was perusing the room, checking out the territory, assessing his targets. Such a composed air of indifference, yet she had the eeriest feeling he had his thumb on everyone’s pulse…particularly the one beating a mouth-watering rhythm right between her—

‘Celeste, I need to see you in private.’

Heart leaping, Celeste pivoted around to see her father’s serious suntanned face gazing down at her.

When she’d arrived this afternoon he’d talked about the future of PLM, hinting again at his retirement and subtly sussing out her aspirations with regard to the company. Was she happy running the central Sydney handbag and accessory store she’d opened this year? Did she want to look at doing something more?

She’d replied that her profit margins were healthy. And, yes, she was definitely ready to do something new. No gushing or taking the words from his mouth, but clearly her father had wanted to confirm his decision before making the big announcement that had been coming for months. Soon the room would be toasting a new CEO.

Celeste Ann Prince.

Noticing that her stranger had disappeared into the crowd, she excused herself from Brooke and accompanied her father down a wide airy hall. As they passed the ethereal image of her mother’s portrait, Celeste heard more clearly the crystals rustling around her evening gown’s hem.

She’d considered wearing a smart black jacket and trousers ensemble, but had decided on the feminine look her mother had said suited her best. The peachy tone complemented her long Titian-blonde waves, and in no way challenged the last faint smattering of freckles that refused to leave her nose and shoulders. Anita Prince had said her daughter’s sun kisses made her glow like an angel. She’d never understood that Celeste hadn’t wanted to glow quite so much.

When they reached the study, her father shut the door on a room stacked with filing cabinets. He drew her towards his desk, then held her eyes with his. ‘In ten minutes I’ll make an announcement. I’ve given it a great deal of thought.’

Celeste gathered herself against rising excitement. ‘I’m sure you have.’

‘Prince Landscape Maintenance has grown into a huge enterprise…a swag of employees to oversee and organise. Master and subordinate franchises that need to be monitored. Its director should be involved at all levels, and can’t be above driving a Bobcat or trimming a tree.’

Although Celeste nodded, her toes wriggled in their silver high heels. She didn’t intend to be that hands-on; a great second-in-charge could handle any day-to-day grind. Rather she planned to invest her time in branching out to incorporate a chain of florists, which would accommodate only the biggest occasions, like celebrity weddings and gala events. She wanted the new section to be exclusive, celebrated, in demand by the elite. It would be her personal contribution to the further development of the company. Under her leadership, they would reach even greater heights.

Her father crossed his arms. ‘Papers need to be signed, but I’ve invited Mr Scott to stay a few days to help ease him in.’

Celeste’s smile wilted. ‘Who’s Mr Scott?’

A new accountant? Lately, whenever she visited her father here at the office he ran from home, he’d been poring over the books, his face more lined than she could ever remember…and not merely from years spent in the sun. At sixty-five, he needed to relax and leave the toil to her.

‘Mr Scott has enjoyed a meteoric financial rise these last five years,’ her father went on. ‘He’s offered to buy Prince Landscape Maintenance. I thought you should meet him before I address our guests and share the news.’

The mahogany panelled walls warped and receded as her legs threatened to buckle and give way. She held her somersaulting stomach and forced the bitter-tasting words from her mouth.

‘You want to sell our company to a stranger?’

She was hit by a frightening impulse to grab her father’s tux lapels, shake him and shout, Don’t do this. You can’t do this! But she’d learned long ago that such displays of emotion got her nowhere. The last time she’d ‘acted out’, she’d been sent to boarding school. Thank heaven for Brooke.

Her father droned on about ‘the generous offer’ and ‘everything working out well’. But Celeste could only think of how she’d always done what was expected of her. She’d excelled at school—even in reviled Maths—and had never attracted trouble while she’d waited in the wings.

How could he do this to her? More importantly, how could he do this to her mother?

She wouldn’t hold her tongue. ‘You knew I wanted to step in when you bowed out. We spoke about it just today.’

Her father’s arms unravelled. ‘Sweetheart, we talked about your handbag shop. I asked whether you’d thought about expanding.’

On the surface maybe. But the subtext had been there…hadn’t it? Although she loved her shop, it was a placeholder business—somewhere to build on her university knowledge and practical skills until this happened. She constantly inquired about PLM, whether the franchises were growing, if there was anything at all she could do to help. Damn it, it had always been understood!

She grabbed at a likely buoy. ‘You said no papers have been signed. Tell this Mr Scott you’ve changed your mind. That you’re handing your daughter over the f-f-firm.’

While her cheeks caught fire, her father’s brow lifted in surprise, then furrowed with mild disapproval at the stutter he hadn’t heard in years.

He shook his head. ‘This is best. It’s a man’s business, and, believe me, I’ve found the right man for the job.’

Celeste set her jaw. She was the only man…er, woman for the job. Besides robbing them of a chance to reconnect, selling PLM was tantamount to betraying her mother’s memory. Anita had been yesterday’s New-Age woman. She’d stayed so strong and had given so much, and she’d done it not only out of loyalty to her husband, but in the staunch belief that Celeste would benefit by taking over one day. Without her mother’s sacrifices, frankly, the Prince franchise wouldn’t exist.

A knock on the door echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Her father glanced over and raised his voice. ‘Come in, Benton.’

Benton…? Benton Scott. Yes, the name rang a bell. Exceedingly wealthy, rather an enigma. Big on charity but stayed well clear of the press.

Her free hand fisted by her side while the other clenched her flute’s stem. She didn’t care if Scott was a monk. PLM was hers. Watch out anyone who stood in her way.

But when the enemy entered, the oxygen seeped from her lungs until there was no air left to breathe.

That jacket. Those eyes. Oh, Lord.

Her tall dark delectable hit man.

His eyes met hers and widened at the same time he stopped dead.

So he’d been just as clueless about her identity when he’d given her the once-over earlier. Well, if he was still interested, so was she…in getting rid of him as fast as she could.

She jumped in to take advantage of the awkward moment. ‘Sorry to sound rude, but my father and I are in the middle of an important discussion. Perhaps we could talk later.’

Her father went to protest, but perceptive Benton Scott held up a hand. ‘It’s fine, Rodney. This doesn’t appear to be the best time for introductions. And possibly tonight isn’t the night for announcements either.’

Celeste shivered. Those exquisite tingles again, but this time at a voice that was as rich and tempting as it was dangerous, like a stream of darkest chocolate undulating over jagged rock.

‘No, no.’ Rodney Prince moved toward his guest, his five-ten stature minimised beside this other man’s impressive height. ‘Come through.’ He flicked a glance at his daughter. ‘We’ve finished here, haven’t we, hon?’

Emotion thickened in her throat. Had he forgotten that much? Did her feelings matter so little?

Benton Scott spoke up. ‘Actually, Rodney, I over-heard a guest—Suzanne Simmons. She said she needed to find you to say goodbye. She’d already called for her car.’

Her father’s moustache twitched and he cleared his throat. ‘I should go. Ms Simmons is one of my most important clients.’

The younger man stepped aside. ‘I understand.’

When her father clapped his guest on the back and left without a backward glance, Celeste braced herself against another twinge of hurt. But she didn’t have time for self-pity. Savvy businesswomen didn’t pout; they dealt the hand rather than merely played it. And, as much as it pained, Benton Scott could well be her trump card.

Outwardly cool, she concentrated on her words and indicated a leather tub chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’

He smiled almost gently, then caught the door knob. ‘As I said earlier, it’s best we leave more thorough introductions for now. Goodnight, Miss Prince.’

No way. She had a plan and this man was her key. She needed to keep him here and talking.

She shot out the first ammunition that came to mind. ‘Can’t handle being alone with a woman?’

He stopped, then slowly turned. His grin was lopsided and shamelessly sexy. ‘That’s never been my problem.’

Inventing an easy shrug, she moved towards the wet bar. ‘There’s always a first time.’

He leant against the door, one long leg bent, his fingers gripping the rim near his head. ‘You look like a nice lady—’

‘I noticed you doing some looking earlier.’

While her heart pogo-jumped in her chest—where had she found the nerve?—his hand fell from the jamb and he straightened. ‘I didn’t know you were Rodney’s daughter.’

‘That would’ve made a difference?’

A muscle in the sharp angle of his jaw began to tic. ‘Perhaps.’

Her hand barely shook as she refilled her glass from an opened bottle set in a shiny silver bucket. She crunched the Bollinger back into its ice. ‘Aside from being someone’s daughter, I also have a double business degree. I run a successful concern of my own—Celestial Bags and Accessories,’ she finished with a note of pride.

With what looked like a straight Scotch in his hand, he sauntered closer, a naturally languid and predatory gait. ‘I’m suitably impressed.’

‘Because I’m a woman?’

His eyes narrowed—amused or assessing? ‘Because of your age.’

Good grief! She was tired of hearing about that too. Twenty-five was hardly a baby.

‘I’m a determined person.’ Gaining courage, she leant back against the polished oak bar. ‘When I want something, I don’t give in easily.’

He cocked a brow and Celeste relaxed a smidgeon more. Her bluff appeared to be working.

‘And what is it that you want, Miss Prince?’

She took a breath. Here goes. ‘I want to keep the family business in the family.’

After a considering moment, he squared his shoulders. ‘We’re being frank?’

‘Of course.’

‘Even if your father had thought to consider it, he wouldn’t give you control.’

After the initial shock, she suppressed a growl. How dared he presume to know her family and their situation so well?

She placed her crystal flute on the bar ledge. ‘It’s not over till it’s over, Mr Scott.’

His blue gaze turned steely. ‘Your father’s company is in financial straits.’

Her thoughts froze. That wasn’t possible. They were one of the leading franchise businesses in the country. Had been for a long time. Her father hadn’t had any financial problems since before her mother had died.

Benton Scott’s voice penetrated the fog. ‘Your father didn’t want to worry you with it.’

I just bet he didn’t.

She absently moved towards the open concertina doors as a wave of dread fell through her. But even if the company were in trouble, that wouldn’t change her mind. A dip in profitability only meant that her innovative ideas were needed now more than ever.

But what did it mean to her hit man?

She rotated back. ‘You’re a successful investor. What do you want with a failing business?’ Her stomach gripped as an answer dawned. ‘Unless it’s to sell off the assets.’

‘I’m not a corporate raider. I see this company as a perfect opportunity to mix business with pleasure. Gambling on the stock market has been lucrative. But I want a business I can get involved with—pardon the pun—from the ground up.’

She studied him, from the top of his coal-black hair to the tips of his polished-Italian-leather shoes. Was she getting this right? ‘You want to mow lawns and drive trucks?’

‘As a matter of fact, when time permits, yes, I do. This company needs tender loving care for it to survive.’

She sent a dry look. ‘And you’re an expert on TLC?’

‘In the right circumstances—’ his gaze licked her lips ‘—absolutely.’

The tips of her breasts tightened as if he’d brushed each bead with the pad of his thumb. What could he do with a graze of his mouth, or the tickling tip of his tongue?

She swallowed against another hot rush of arousal.

Rewind, Celeste. Not in the plan, remember.

She crossed out onto the cool patio. Gazing at the fairy-tale spread of city lights and majestic arch of Sydney’s Harbour Bridge twinkling in the distance, she considered her next move. When he joined her, the scent of earlier rain and damp eucalyptus leaves faded beneath the proximity of another influence… spicy, expensive and achingly male.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Benton lift the Scotch to his lips. ‘We’re not going to agree,’ he said.

‘I disagree.’

He chuckled and turned to her. ‘You’re one stubborn woman.’

‘I prefer the word persistent.’

She flicked a glance at his left hand. Of course no gold ring. Did he have a girlfriend? More likely he had several, which was fine with her.

Fine, fine, fine.

His eyes, reflecting light from the low slung moon, trailed her jaw. ‘I wish we’d met under different circumstances. It could’ve been—’

‘Mutually beneficial?’

He swirled his drink. ‘That’s one way to put it.’

‘How about memorable? Meaningful?’

A corner of his mouth curved up as his brows nudged together. ‘Why, Miss Prince, are you hitting on me?’

When his eyes twinkled again, her nipples tightened more and an alarmingly vivid image of his white teeth tugging one tip, then the other, bloomed in her mind.

Battling the sparks firing low in her belly, she cleared the huskiness from her throat and explained. ‘Actually I’m suggesting you do the honourable thing and step away from this buyout.’

Disappointment dragged down his smile and he faced the view. ‘Whatever you might believe, your father is being cruel to be kind. So am I. If this business takes one more wrong turn, you could lose everything.’

Sorry? Did she have ‘walking business disaster’ hanging from a sign on her back?

She crossed her arms. ‘Thanks for the confidence boost. When I’m as successful as you are now, I only hope I’m as modest.’

His jaw tensed. ‘Sarcasm is so predictable. I prefer it when you flirt.’

She huffed and mumbled, ‘Well, you are a man.’

‘And you’re a woman,’ he drawled. ‘A beautiful woman, who obviously likes to wear pretty clothes and keep her nails buffed.’ While her brain registered ‘beautiful’, the strong planes of his face softened. ‘Why don’t you take your share of the cash and buy a couple of boutiques to go with your handbag store?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s the sexist nature of your suggestion that rankles most, or the fact you sincerely mean that to be sage advice?’

Maybe he was bigger, wealthier…hell, maybe he was smarter than her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t fight for what was hers. Anita Prince would be cheering her daughter on all the way.

He considered her for a long moment. Then the mask cracked. He groaned and tugged an ear lobe. ‘What are you proposing?’

She faced him full on. ‘Compassion. You can buy any business you like but PLM is personal to me. My parents lost blood, sweat and tears getting it started.’ She remembered the highs and lows as if it were yesterday—the flying champagne corks as well as the fights. ‘You say you have our best interests at heart. Prove it. I know this business backward. Give me three months to show my father I can get the company back on its feet.’

The tugging on his mouth told her he was chewing his inside lip. After another nerve-racking delay, he exhaled. ‘One month.’

Snap!

She hid a smile. ‘Two.’

‘Six weeks and with one condition. I’ll be here, working beside you the whole time.’

‘I don’t need to have my hand held.’

‘Plenty of damage can be done in six weeks. I have no intention of cleaning up any more mess than I need to.’

Her smile was tight. ‘If I had thinner skin, I’d be insulted.’

She had to think fast. To have Benton Scott around would be far too distracting. For more reasons than one she needed her mind set on accomplishing her goal, not watching her back. Perhaps a different tack would dissuade him…something to make his super-sized ego jump.

She feigned a sigh. ‘When I first saw you tonight, I assumed you were a man who enjoyed a challenge. A man who took risks. Guess I was wrong.’

When she turned away, he caught her wrist and flames leapt up her arm, colourful and consuming enough to ignite her body like a Roman candle. What was this guy’s secret? Sex appeal pills with every meal?

Hoping the blistering effect didn’t show on her face, she counted her heartbeats, then cautiously met his gaze.

While his eyes flashed, the grip on her arm eased. ‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. But something else needs to be out in the open.’ He spoke to her lips. ‘Six weeks is a long time. I’m not sure we can work that close for that long without…consequences.’

The innate heat radiating from his body toasted hypersensitive places Celeste hadn’t realised she possessed—and had no intention of letting on she’d discovered.

She kept her words slow and even. ‘You’ve come a long way since this isn’t the time for introductions.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Consequences are fine. As long as you know I’m not after a Mrs Scott, no matter whose daughter I’m with. Or what that daughter wants.’

Celeste almost gasped. He was suggesting she’d try to manipulate him into marriage to keep the business! How many times had Benton Scott had his face slapped this week? ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but listen carefully…I am not interested.’

‘No?’

She coughed out a laugh. ‘No.’

He chewed his inside lip again. ‘I’m not convinced. Being a thorough as well as cynical man, before we go any further, I’ll need to have proof.’

He left her no time to think. With a single arm he brought her near and like an apple falling to Earth—as if it was always meant to be—his mouth dropped and landed on hers.

The first few seconds were a blackout—all brain function shut down and energy funnelled to a suspended point a notch below zero. Then, as if waking from a coma, one by one every erogenous cell in her system zoomed up and blinked on. A heartbeat later, a ground-shaking surge of heat zapped like a lightning bolt right the way through her. When the palm high on her back pressed her closer, the intensity grew—brighter, hotter—until the magnetic inferno he’d created inside threatened to burn her alive.

This wasn’t a kiss.

It was an assassination.

With skilled reluctance, he drew away, but only until the tip of his nose rested on hers. Caught in the prisms of his half mast eyes, she tried to make sense of her surroundings while her chest rose and fell, her limbs hung like lead and her core compressed around a tight, glowing coil of raw physical want.

When his head slanted as if he might kiss her again, she held her breath. But then his mouth hooked up at one side and he released her. Thank God she didn’t teeter.

‘I’m staying the week,’ he said. ‘If you’re still interested—or was that not interested?—tomorrow we can talk more, perhaps over a drink.’

By some miracle she steadied her breathing and dredged up a smile.

‘A drink sounds good. But just so we’re clear, I’ll take mine with plenty of ice.’ She took his glass and pitched the warm Scotch over the rail. ‘And so, Mr Scott, will you.’


CHAPTER TWO

EARLY the next morning, Ben Scott woke up face down on the sheets, hugging a comfortless pillow, painfully aware of a mean morning hard-on.

He cracked open one eye.

Strange room. No one beside him. Good Lord, he needed to roll over.

Taking the pillow with him, he groaned as spears of light spliced through the sheer blowing curtains. Then the night before flooded his mind, foremost his conversation with the irrepressible Miz Prince. Relaxing back, he closed his eyes and remembered their bombshell kiss and her clever parting remark.

He grinned. She wanted ice? More like she wanted gasoline poured on her fire. However, while he would very much like to help, common—and business—sense told him if he played too close to those flames, someone would likely get burned. He was here to take control of a high-profile business that needed an injection of funds and his undivided attention to bring it back from the edge. But if Rodney Prince viewed this takeover as a saving grace, so did Ben. He couldn’t wait to plunge in.

Soft laughter drifted in through his bedroom’s second-storey doors. Setting the pillow aside, Ben strolled out onto the balcony. Celeste Prince was in the yard, ruffling the heads of two mid-sized poodles. When she threw a ball, they raced off like chocolate-brown rabbits across the wide-open lawn.

Crouched in the shade of an enormous Morton Bay fig tree, golden tresses framing her face, she might’ve been a fairy from the garden. Then she pushed up onto shapely long legs, her rounded cleavage popped into view, and those innocent thoughts flew from his mind.

He combed back his hair and, fingers thatched behind his head, stretched his arms and spine. While he’d been wrong to take advantage and kiss her last night, he couldn’t regret it. In fact, if he had less moral fibre he’d do it again.

He finished his stretch, then cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Ahoy down there!’

She glanced up, but her widening gaze stopped short of reaching his eyes. Rather it got stuck on his bare chest, which suddenly felt twice its usual size. His mouth twitched. What was that about moral fibre?

Lowering his hands and setting them apart on the rail, he deliberately leaned forward. Realising what he’d done—given her a better look—she stiffened, then quickly dropped her gaze. When she peered back up, although her smile was controlled, her green eyes were glistening, just as they’d glistened last night.

‘You’re up early,’ she said.

He thought of his crotch. ‘I’m an early riser. Mind if I join you?’

‘I was hoping you would.’

His brow lifted. ‘I take it you’re ready to get down to business.’

‘I’ve never been more ready in my life.’ She wound her arms up under that delectable bust. ‘Let’s do it.’

Thirty seconds later, Ben was face up under a cold shower, getting a good grip on himself.

He’d had women before. He’d respected and enjoyed every one. But, from the moment their eyes had met across the room, there’d been something different about Celeste Prince. He should’ve guessed she was Rodney’s daughter. Later, in her father’s study, he should’ve known she was laying a trap, leading him into a plan that would hopefully see him surrender his bid on the company.

He stepped from the shower recess and, dripping, grabbed a towel.

Yes, his normally clear sights had been blurred where Celeste was concerned. But he had her number now. She was a lady on a mission. He was in her way. She’d knock him down and drag him out any way she could.

He rubbed his chest and grinned.

It’d be fun letting her try.

Halfway out the front door, the thin middle-aged housekeeper caught up with him to hand over a note.

Benton, an urgent personal matter has called me away. Deepest apologies. Celeste is aware and will make sure you’re comfortable. Rodney Prince.

That bought Celeste a little time to think of a way to explain this situation to her father, Ben thought, pushing the note into his pocket and walking out onto the veranda. It was clear she believed filling Daddy’s shoes would make him proud. Ben sympathised with her—even envied her a touch. He’d give anything to have known a real father. A mother, too.

But he’d got something at least from his foster-home days…a survival technique, which had later crossed over into business: the uncanny ability to quickly and accurately sum up people and situations. Case in point, he had no doubt this deal would go through; Rodney Prince would never entertain the idea of passing on his ailing business to his pretty young daughter.

And Celeste? She was all about deportment classes and new season fashion. She didn’t want to accept it yet, but she was better off following her more feminine sway. He was rarely wrong and he sure wasn’t wrong about that.

When he met Celeste in the yard, despite the cold shower, the sight of her fresh face—those cute freckles sprinkled over her nose—had his toes stiffening in his heavy-duty boots.

He bent to ruffle both dogs’ ears, then fixed the Akubra hat on his head while she sauntered over, eyeing his khaki outfit. ‘My, my, you’re taking this seriously.’

‘And while I like the frock,’ he said, ‘you don’t look dressed for a day at work.’

Not a flinch. Only a measured reply. ‘I thought we could go over the books. I can change into a suit if you prefer.’

Picturing her draped over a desk in a vest and tie and nothing else, he cleared his throat.

Focus, Scottie.

‘I thought we should start by tackling the more practical side of things.’ Eager to begin, he rubbed his hands together. ‘Where’s a mower?’

She smiled, a cheeky tilt of perfect plump lips. They’d tasted like cherries last night. The juiciest, ripest cherries he’d ever known.

‘Are you going to give me a quiz?’ she asked. ‘You want me to name the parts?’

He copied her grin. ‘Not quite. You said you could rescue this business. That you could prove you knew it all backwards. Why don’t we start with something basic, like lopping an inch off this lawn?’ He surveyed the grounds, patted his chest and inhaled. ‘I can smell the petrol fumes and hot motor oil now.’

A dog came to sit either side of her as she stooped to slip an espadrille on each foot. ‘If you’re trying to deter me, save your breath. I was brought up on the aroma of fertiliser and grip of secateurs.’

He shrugged. ‘Then you’ll be able to show me a thing or two.’

‘I didn’t want to say it, but that’s kind of my point.’

She strolled away, her derrière swaying a little too freely to be entirely unconscious. Ice, be damned. If her head was saying to concentrate on business, her body hadn’t got the message yet.

She cast a look over one delicate shoulder. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? You could always tell my father you needed more time to decide. I’ll work around him and the situation, and when you check back in two months—’

‘Six weeks.’

‘Six weeks,’ she conceded as he caught up, ‘you’ll see everything is going forward nicely and you can, in all good conscience, step away from the buy.’

‘You mean do the honourable thing.’

She flashed him a toothpaste-ad smile. ‘Precisely.’

He had his own ideas on how to approach Rodney with the subject of this ‘trial’. But Celeste was right about one thing: she didn’t give in easily. Pity for her, but he didn’t give in at all. He wouldn’t be fobbed off.

‘Having me right alongside you was part of the deal, remember? Of course, if you’d like me to remind you again…’

Knowing full well what he alluded to—the kiss—she looked away, dropped her chin and quickened her pace.

He slipped his hands in his pockets. Interesting response. Was Celeste Prince a pussycat masquerading in vixen’s clothing? Although that would make her easier to handle, he almost preferred it the other way. She’d been dead on when she’d said he liked a challenge—particularly one who kissed like she did.

She stopped before a large metal shed, then, putting her weight behind its sliding door, pushed until a row of lawnmowers was revealed. She waved a theatrical hand. ‘Choose your poison.’

He let out a whistle. ‘That’s quite a selection.’

‘Before my father started the franchise, he fixed mowers for a living. Now he collects them.’

‘Like stamps, only bigger.’

She laughed. ‘Something like that.’

Sauntering into the enclosure, which smelled of rags and dry lawn clippings, he fought the urge to kick a few tyres. ‘This one should do the trick.’

Red and clearly well maintained, it reminded him of a model he’d used when he was a kid. He’d received a dollar whenever he’d tended the yard, but his foster dad’s smile had been the best reward. He had only ever given praise, and had never raised his voice as some of the other ‘dads’ had. Six months into Ben’s stay with his new family, that man had died of a heart attack. In his foster mother’s red-rimmed eyes—in her overly kind voice—Ben had guessed his fate. Next house. Next family. Hell, by that time, he should’ve been used to it.

Celeste ran her hand over the metal handle. ‘This one must be over twenty years old. Wouldn’t you like a newer model?’

He wheeled it outside. ‘This’ll do fine.’

He stooped and ripped the cord. The engine whirred, but didn’t kick over. Putting some back into it, he pulled again. Splutter, whir, then nothing. Seeing her dainty foot pegged out, but avoiding her eyes, he set his hat on the ground and yanked the cord almost out of its connection.

He smothered a wince and stood back. He would not rub his shoulder.

‘It must be broken.’

Celeste sauntered forward and, with one perfectly manicured tip, flicked a small lever. Frowning, he looked closer.

The lever said ‘Fuel’. How’d he miss that?

‘Try it now,’ she said.

He shifted his jaw, bent to rip the cord again and the motor roared to life.

With a solemn face, he nodded deeply. ‘Good work,’ he said over the noise.

Her eyes were laughing. ‘Does that mean I pass the first test?’

He flexed a brow. ‘I believe that was the second test.’

Her emerald eyes darkened but this time she didn’t look away.

Pleased to have his vixen back, he settled his hands on the metal bar and remembered a vibration that shook all the way up to rattle his teeth. ‘In your professional opinion, how long do you think this will take?’

‘This model’s not self-propelled, so the best part of the morning,’ she called back.

He stepped away and indicated the mower. ‘There you go.’ Distaste dragging on her face, she stepped back too. ‘What’s wrong? You grew up with fertiliser and secateurs. You’ve mown a lawn before, surely.’

If he worked her hard enough, she’d be running off to her handbag shop by midweek. One day, she might even thank him.

She turned off the fuel. ‘It’s a large block. If you insist I do this, I’ll use a ride-on.’

A few moments later, another engine was growling, a monster this time. A ride-on? This model was more like a tractor.

She found some gardening gloves and wriggled her French tips into each slot while he plonked his Akubra on her head. ‘You’ll need this. It’s getting hot.’

Her chin tilted and she peered at him from beneath the overly large brim. ‘Thanks.’ Her tone said she wasn’t sure she meant it.

After she’d pulled herself up behind the wheel, he hauled up behind her.

She rotated around, then ducked as his leg swung over her head. ‘What the hell are you doing?

He squeezed down behind her on the adequate seat, tandem style. Nice fit. Nice perfume too. Light and flowery with a hint of a bite. Suited Miz Prince to a sassy tee.

‘I told you last night. If we’re doing this, I’ll need to be your shadow.’

As if he had rabies, she shunted closer to the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps you need a drink first. How’s ice tea?’

‘I prefer something hot in the morning.’

She turned fully around and sent him a warning glare from way beneath that Akubra brim. ‘You won’t scare me off.’

Well, hopefully not too soon.

He waved his hand at the steering wheel. ‘Then I suggest you drive.’

Determination filled her eyes. She released the handbrake and planted her foot. The machine lurched forward and her hat flew in his face. Then she yanked the wheel, the tractor arced to the left and Ben fell sideways, barely managing to stay on.

Righting himself, he jammed the hat back on her head and, setting his hands on her hips, drove her rump back hard against his inner leg seams. She’d given him reason to hang on and her backside was the quintessential grip.

She slammed on the brake and scrambled off. When she threw the hat on the ground, he saw her face was flushed. ‘I’m not doing this.’

He shrugged. ‘You set the agenda.’

Talking him into this crazy plan, choosing this tractor, then trying to tip him off.

‘You—you—’ She bit her lip. Averting her gaze, she got her breath and maybe counted to three before she pinned him down again. ‘You’re not playing fair.’

‘This isn’t about what’s fair. I’m doing what I need to do to ensure the welfare of a future investment.’ And, in due course, set you on your merry way.

Her gaze zigzagged over his face as if trying to find a way in, or out. Then, with her mouth set, she pulled herself up on the ride-on again.

For the next hour they rode that baby in a diagonal pattern back and forth over the massive square of lawn. The vibration worked up his legs, rippling through every bone in his body. It should’ve been entirely non-sexual, but for her sweet behind planted before him…shifting, shaking, rubbing, until he gripped the seat either side and prayed for the torture to end. By the time they returned to the shed and she dismounted, his pants were on fire.

She grabbed the brim of his hat, flung it like a frisbee and set her hands on her hips. ‘Satisfied?’

He groaned. Not quite.

He edged off the opposite side and held off rearranging himself. ‘Well done,’ he croaked.

‘So, what’s next on your agenda?’

‘How about a long cold drink?’ He turned to face her.

She looked half pleased. ‘Possibly something with ice?’

He frowned. ‘A man is not a camel, Miss Prince.’ Nor was he a block of wood…well, not literally. At this precise moment, he was a desperately aroused animal who was a second away from showing her just how aroused he was.

Forcing his testosterone-driven brain to visualise a bleak snowy landscape—no valleys, no peaks—he headed towards the house, sensing the dogs padding behind him. When he slowed down, she caught up, but he steered the conversation towards a safe topic.

‘How long have you had the dogs?’

‘Matilda and Clancy were from the same litter. We got them…’ Her words faded before she finished the sentence. ‘Dad got them about fifteen years ago.’

He calculated. ‘You would’ve been—’

‘Ten,’ she said, keeping her eyes dead ahead. ‘Same year my mother passed away.’

His chest tightened, but his step didn’t falter. Although, of course, he was ‘sorry for her loss’, in his opinion, that kind of phrase rarely sounded sincere. In her place, he wouldn’t want to hear it. They didn’t know each other well enough to ask about the circumstances. Instead he clicked his fingers and both dogs pranced up. Smiling, he brushed a palm over one wet nose, then the other. ‘They act like pups.’

She swept her hair back in a temporary ponytail off her neck. ‘They’ll go and sleep under a tree half the day now.’

‘They’ve had breakfast, then.’

Getting his hint, she smiled. ‘I bet Denise has whipped up a feast. You look like a bacon-and-eggs man.’

His brows lifted. Good guess. ‘And you say that because…’

She dropped the ponytail. ‘I have a crystal ball.’

‘A crystal ball would come in handy. Have you asked it about our six-week trial?’

As a warm breeze blew back the ribbons of her hair, he thought he saw her brow pinch. ‘What do you think it would say?’

He didn’t need a crystal ball to predict what would happen here. But suddenly he wasn’t feeling so hot about playing a game that could only end one way. Even if he did step aside, Rodney would find another buyer. If, indeed, he could attract another decent bid for a business on the brink. Celeste was in a no win situation. Should he convince Rodney to allow her to continue with this doomed plan until she chose to walk away herself? Or would it be kinder to call stumps now? He knew from experience that holding onto fantasy could be worse than facing the truth. The sooner a person accepted, the sooner they could start to hold it together and survive another way.

When they entered the house, those thoughts evaporated as he soaked up the aroma of warm toast and, he was betting, fresh muffins. Man, he was starved. He was about to excuse himself and wash up when a familiar voice drifted down the hall.

Celeste turned to him with a curious gaze. ‘My father’s back.’

A female voice tinkled down to them next. ‘Sounds like he’s brought company.’

They found Rodney and his guest standing in the middle of the Axminster-carpeted living room, beneath the shifting reflections of a sparkling chandelier. From the night before, Ben recognised the woman. He wasn’t the least surprised that Rodney was kissing her. He’d had the strongest feeling…

Celeste’s hands flew to her mouth, but a gasp escaped.

Startled, Rodney broke the kiss and stepped back from the beautiful widow, Suzanne Simmons.

His moustache drooping, Rodney cleared his throat then rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Celeste, Benton, you both know Mrs Simmons.’

Ben anticipated Celeste’s reaction. He stepped closer, surreptitiously steadying her before her legs gave way. Ben nodded a greeting at the couple. Celeste couldn’t manage the same courtesy. Who could blame her? This must be a shock.

Her voice was threadbare. ‘What’s going on?’

With her eyes on Ben and Celeste, Suzanne Simmons touched her beau’s arm. Reassuring her, Rodney patted her hand, then walked up to his dazed daughter. ‘Suzanne and I are going to be married, Celeste. We’re very happy. Really looking forward to kicking back and having a family.’

Celeste’s long lashes fluttered several times as she took it in. ‘Dad, you’re sixty-five.’

His jowls pinked up. ‘Suzanne’s having a baby. She’s a fair way along with your little brother or sister. She had a scare last night but we’ve been to the doctor and everything appears to be fine.’ He looked back at his bride-to-be and sent a smile. ‘Just fine.’

While Ben felt Celeste’s disbelief to his bones, he did what was expected. He put out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Rodney.’ He finished shaking and nodded towards Suzanne. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy.’

Another empty phrase, but this time, no doubt, appreciated. Ben believed in love wholeheartedly. It was the happily ever afters a man could never count on.

Suzanne’s expression was kind and concerned as she came forward and took both Celeste’s hands in hers. ‘I’m sorry. This must be a huge surprise. We wanted to tell you tonight over a quiet family dinner.’ The widow’s gaze dropped to her rounded belly, then found Celeste’s eyes again. ‘I hope we can be friends.’

Ben’s heart went out to Celeste as her slender throat bobbed up and down. Then she seemed to find some inner strength and somehow smiled. ‘I’m… very happy…for you both.’

Suzanne addressed Ben. ‘This buyout has come at the right time. We want to enjoy each other and the baby without the worry of a big business hanging over our heads.’ She spoke to Celeste. ‘Your dad tells me you’d like to buy another shop. That’s so exciting. Bet you can’t wait to get out there and start looking.’

Celeste’s eyes glistened with a different kind of emotion as she looked to her father, who only looked away.

The circumstances were hardly the same and yet Ben felt Celeste’s pain as if it were his own. It was a similar stab in the gut he’d experienced at age ten when he’d stepped one way, fate had stepped another, and suddenly he hadn’t had that home any more. Guess the hurt of being pared off was no different no matter your age or position. Today at least he could do something to help.

Ben moved forward. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Rodney. I’ve invited your daughter out for the day. We were about to head off to grab something to eat.’

Rodney’s expression jostled. ‘Denise has a banquet on its way out.’

‘And with my appetite—’ Suzanne’s settling hand found her fiancé’s arm again ‘—I’m sure I could eat at least half of it. You two run along,’ she encouraged Ben and Celeste. ‘We’ll see you both back here later.’

Five minutes on, Ben and the still stunned Celeste were seated in his SLK Mercedes, heading into town. She didn’t protest; he’d bet she could barely talk. Her last twelve hours had been one kick in the gut after another. Yet she’d been so strong.

He was definitely no expert in fixing family woes; today he was an outsider, as always. He shouldn’t feel responsible. This wasn’t his doing. And yet what would it cost him to see his vixen smile again?

He planted his foot.

He knew just where to start.


CHAPTER THREE

BEHIND her sunglasses, Celeste gazed blindly out at the endless stretch of gum trees as Benton Scott’s high-powered sports car propelled them away from her father’s house. She didn’t know if she ever wanted to see it again.

Benton didn’t try to talk, for which she was grateful. Rather, with the top down, they drove until the traffic skirting the city slowed their escape. It was enough. She’d had an hour and had reached a conclusion.

Things happened for a reason. Today’s king-hit was meant to make her see that the dream she’d held onto all these years hadn’t been real—had never really been hers, no matter what she remembered from the past. Now it was time to either be eaten up by a sense of betrayal or let go. Given that her heart had been cracked wide open and all hope had leaked out, the second choice was a shoe-in. She had no more to give.

The well had run dry.

A traffic light blinked to red and Benton rolled the Merc to a stop. Exhaling fully, Celeste removed her glasses and studied the driver, who, at the moment, seemed more like a godsend than an assassin. Either way, he was the hottest man she’d ever met. And, it seemed, a sensitive one.

She half smiled. ‘Thanks for getting me out of there.’

Glancing over, Benton pulled his mirror lenses down an inch, lifted a brow, then pushed the frames back up his aquiline nose. ‘No problem.’

He was bad-boy handsome, perhaps with a touch of Mediterranean blood. His skin was smooth and olive, hair dark as pitch and long enough, she realised now, to lick the collar of his khaki shirt. She couldn’t see his eyes so she focused on his profile…on his lips…beautiful lips for a man…dusty pink, the bottom one full and soft. She remembered how soft. Remembered how he’d tasted too.

‘We’re almost into the city.’ He slipped into gear. The car cruised off again and the magnificent steel arch of Sydney Harbour Bridge came into view. ‘I’d like to see your shop.’

Celeste smiled, but shook her head. Now he was taking compassion too far. ‘You’re not the least bit interested in handbags and belts.’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in what you normally do with your day.’

Brooke helped manage Celestial Bags and Accessories and had taken this weekend shift. They’d been best friends for ten years, but Celeste couldn’t face her today. Knowing the family history, Brooke would try to comfort her and Celeste would sooner forget today had ever happened. A long hot bath and a good thick book might be the best place to start.

When the Merc rolled up to another set of lights, she turned to him. ‘Sorry, but I’d rather you just drop me home.’

His large hands slid down opposing arcs of the sports steering wheel. ‘No can do.’

She frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The day’s too nice to spend moping around inside.’

‘I won’t be moping.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I’m all done moping.’

He removed his glasses. His look said, Yeah, right. Aloud he said, ‘I’ll make you a deal.’

She gazed out the window. Please, not now. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘Not that I’m keeping score, but you owe me one. In fact, you owe me two.’

Her mouth pulled to one side. Oh, hell. She really did—for going along with her six-week scheme, and then pulling her out of that awkward situation with her father and Suzanne Simmons.

She held back a weary sigh and faced him. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ll drop you home, but only to grab a swimsuit.’

Her pulse rate picked up. That sounded ominous. ‘What do you have planned?’

He drew a zip across his lips. ‘Federal secret.’

She had a flash of him entertaining her in a bubbling spa tub on the balcony of some glamorous penthouse suite. But somehow that didn’t gel. She wasn’t getting a ‘take advantage of the poor girl while she’s down’ feeling. Rather the opposite.

Oh, what was she agonising over anyway? She’d bought a new swimsuit last week. She was a couple of kilos past her ideal weight, which had gone directly to her saddle bags. But what the heck? Would it kill her to be impulsive for a change?

Decided, she gave him directions to her apartment building, and ten minutes after he’d pulled up she was back down with her swimsuit packed. With his hip propped against the bonnet, he disconnected his cell call and opened her door, then eased back into his side.





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