Читать книгу Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress - Robyn Grady - Страница 7

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After her mother’s death fifteen years ago, her dad had withdrawn from everything but business and they’d drifted apart.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.’