Mistress for a Month

His dark eyes with those sparking flecks said much more, and she grew hot with embarrassment.

“That’s sweet,” she said.

When his hand reached across the table for hers, she jumped.

“Responsive, too. That’s another first thought.”

She yanked her hand free and tucked it beneath her pink napkin.

“This Fletcher doesn’t deserve you. But let’s talk of something more pleasant. I can tell we’ll never agree on this subject, so why argue? Your love life is your choice. Not mine. I barely know you.”

He seemed out of sorts suddenly, defensive, almost jealous. But that wasn’t possible. A man like him, who was wealthy, refined and movie-star sexy couldn’t be jealous of her. Especially not when they’d just met.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“So, you have a sister?” He was clearly determined to change the subject. “Here in London?

“Carol. Actually, she lives outside London. On a rather grand estate near Wolverton. She has a large house with a conservatory. And a lovely garden, too. That sounds so English, doesn’t it? But she and her husband—he’s a lord and a very important person, mind you—keep a flat here in St. James so they can stay in the city whenever they need to, which is usually four or five nights a week. She’s a barrister, and he’s high up in the government. They both work in the city.”

“So how much time do you have with them? What sights are you going to see while you’re here?”

“I’m flying to Marseilles tomorrow afternoon. But I hope to ride the Eye and walk across the Millennium Bridge. I’m sure those seem like dull and boring things to you.”

“Quit running yourself down. We’ll do it, then,” he said.

“We’ll?”

“If you’ll accept my invitation. Are you free for dinner and dancing tonight?”

“But we just met. I bet I’m not the sort of girl you usually ask out.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Just what I said. I’m not the sort of girl you usually hang out with.”

“No, you’re not. But maybe that’s why I like you so much. Why I find you so not boring and old, as you put it, that I want to clear my schedule, which is jam-packed I assure you, and spend as much time as I can with you before you leave.”

She was thrilled and yet startled, too. She was in a foreign city, and she didn’t know anything about him. Except that he was sexy, and she wasn’t sure that was exactly the best recommendation.

“I’ll have to check with my sister. She went to Edinburgh on business, but she’s going to try to get back tonight in time to have me come for dinner. I came over here in such a rush, and she had a calendar full of engagements and business commitments.”

“I understand.” He pulled out a little black notebook and tore out a page. Then he scribbled two numbers. “This one’s my mobile. The other rings at the flat. Call me if you’re free.” Then he shrugged in that wonderful Gallic way he had as he handed it to her.

His deep voice was as heated as his gaze, causing her to shiver even before he placed the note in her hand. Instantly she curled her fingers around the scrap of paper. When his fingers lingered warmly over hers for long seconds, her own hand froze.

Soon the heat of his long fingers wrapping hers proved too unnerving. She couldn’t think or talk or breathe. Not with her pulse knocking a hundred beats a minute.

“Why do you seem so familiar?” she blurted, pulling her hand away so she could put his note in her purse. She gasped for a breath. “I—I just know I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t think so.”

With a scowl, he picked up the bill. Then before she knew what he was about, he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, turning it over slowly. His mouth against her palm and wrist sent her pulse leaping even faster than before. Then heat swept her body.

“I don’t need to call you later. I’ll go with you…dancing…everything…tonight,” she said in a rush.

“What about Carol?”

“Carol?” Her mind was blank.

“Your sister.” He smiled much too knowingly.

“Right.” She gasped. “Right. Of course. Carol. I’ve got to wait until Carol calls. I forgot all about her.”

He laughed. “You’re wonderful in your own special way. I envy that nice guy with the job who’s going to get you. Lucky man.”

When he got up, he helped her out of her chair. After he paid the bill, he escorted her out of the shop and said he hoped he’d see her soon. On the sidewalk he lifted her hand to his mouth and said goodbye before walking rapidly toward Piccadilly.

Amelia looked at the little scrap of paper with his phone numbers on it. He hadn’t written his name down, nor had he introduced himself properly. He hadn’t asked her for her name, either.

Why?

He had impeccable manners.

Was he famous?

Why did he seem so familiar?

France’s Highest Court Upholds Dismissal of Manslaughter Charges against Comte Remy de Fournier!

Her mouth agape, riveted by the news headlines, lurid photographs and articles in the newspaper she was holding, Amelia sat perfectly still on Carol’s “bloody-expensive” sofa.

Remy de Fournier. No wonder he’d seemed so edgy. No wonder he hadn’t told her who he was.

He’d killed his best friend, André Laffite, because he’d driven on bad tires on a wet day to win. Since the wreck, he’d slept with every beautiful woman with a title on the continent, heartlessly jilting them, not caring if he broke their hearts as long as they pleasured him.

So, they hadn’t met quite by accident.

She took a deep breath against the hurt that threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn’t attracted to her. He’d been feeling her out, figuring out a strategy to get the valuable properties he coveted.

Beneath the blaring headline were pictures of the crash that had ended the life of his best friend. Apparently Remy had been determined to win at any cost. More photographs of the wreck were splashed across a back page. There were numerous shots of Remy and the beautiful women he’d dated and jilted. One of the women had even made a suicide attempt after her affair with him. Not that the woman herself blamed Remy. No, she said he’d helped her through a difficult time. There was an awful picture of him smashing his fist into a reporter’s jaw.

When she finished reading the articles and looking at the pictures, Amy felt sick. She reexamined them, anyway. When she was done, she shot to her feet and began to pace with the newspaper clutched to her heart. If half the accusations were true, she should despise him. Wadding the paper up, she threw the pages at the wall and then flung herself back down on Carol’s sofa.

Bastard. Liar. Jerk.

A memory came back to her. Remy had been eighteen, and she’d been in the garden when the comte had hurled brutal, damning insults at him. Never would she forget the torment in Remy’s eyes when he’d stormed out of the château and straight into her.

“What the hell were you doing?” he’d thundered. “Spying?”