Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure

Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure
India Grey

Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.Fast cars and glamorous socialites are everyday components of devastatingly handsome billionaire Orlando Winterton’s thrilling, decadent lifestyle… …then something changes, and Orlando closes himself off from the world. Until Rachel Campion arrives at Orlando’s remote country estate, desperately in need of shelter. Orlando cannot deny the pull of her fragile beauty, and takes her with passionate fury. The next morning his demons return to haunt him, and he knows he must ask Rachel to leave… But then a baby is found abandoned on his doorstep – allegedly his son!To Orlando, the solution is simple: he’ll hire Rachel to take care of the child – and as long as she’s under his roof he’ll keep on making love to her… Until he’s got her out of his system!

‘You’d better get out of that dress.’

He couldn’t mean…? Was her mother right? Did all men just want to…?

Rachel wrapped an arm around the thick wooden bedpost, half clinging to it, half shrinking behind it. Her mouth was dry, her stomach quivering with fear. Shaking violently, she turned, offering her back to him and bending her head forward so he could reach the top of the zip. It seemed to take an eternity. At last his long fingers brushed the hair off the nape of her neck and skimmed over the sensitised skin of her shoulders, leaving a shivering trail of sensation in their wake.

She’d thought she was afraid of his touch, but this was something quite different. Something she’d thought she was incapable of experiencing, which had been unfurling inside her since he’d first held her against him.

With a thud of shock and a rush of liquid heat she realised the sensation that was quickening her pulse and filling her limbs with honeyed warmth was not fear.

It was arousal.

A self-confessed romance junkie, India Grey was just thirteen years old when she first sent off for the Mills & Boon writers’ guidelines. She can still recall the thrill of getting the large brown envelope with its distinctive logo through the letterbox, and subsequently whiled away many a dull school day staring out of the window and dreaming of the perfect hero. She kept those guidelines with her for the next ten years, tucking them carefully inside the cover of each new diary in January, and beginning every list of New Year’s Resolutions with the words Start Novel. In the meantime she gained a degree in English Literature from Manchester University and, in a stroke of genius on the part of the gods of romance, met her gorgeous future husband on the very last night of their three years there. The last fifteen years have been spent blissfully buried in domesticity, and heaps of pink washing generated by three small daughters, but she has never really stopped daydreaming about romance. She’s just profoundly grateful to have finally got an excuse to do it legitimately!

Recent titles by the same author:

THE ITALIAN’S CAPTIVE VIRGIN

THE ITALIAN’S DEFIANT MISTRESS

MISTRESS: HIRED FOR THE BILLIONAIRE’S PLEASURE

BY

INDIA GREY

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

For all the heroes of the RAF…and for one in particular. F.W.—with thanks.

PROLOGUE

‘IT’S not good news, I’m afraid.’

Orlando Winterton didn’t flinch. A thousand years of aristocratic breeding and a lifetime of ruthless self-control made his lean, dark face perfectly expressionless as the ophthalmic consultant looked down at the file on the mirror-shiny expanse of Victorian mahogany that separated them.

‘The test results show that your field of vision is significantly impaired in the central section, indicating that the cells of the macula may be prematurely breaking down…’

‘Spare me the science, Andrew.’ Orlando’s voice was harsh. ‘Let’s just cut straight to the bit where you tell me what you can do about it.’

There was a small pause. Orlando felt his hands tighten on the arms of the discreetly expensive leather chair as he tried to read the expression on Andrew Parkes’s clever, careful face. But the blurring in the centre of his vision that had brought him here was already advanced enough to make this kind of sensitive judgement difficult. He waited, listening for clues in the other man’s tone.

‘Ah. Well, I’m afraid the answer to that is not very much.’

Orlando said nothing, but he felt his head jerk back slightly, as if he had been struck. There it was, that soft note of pity he had dreaded. A quiet death knell.

‘I’m sorry, Orlando.’

‘Don’t be. Just tell me what’s going to happen. Will I still be able to fly?’

Andrew Parkes sighed. It was never easy being the bearer of news like this, but in Orlando Winterton’s case it was particularly cruel. Andrew had been a friend of Orlando’s father, Lord Ashbroke, until his death four years ago, and understood that in joining the RAF both of Ashbroke’s sons were following a long and distinguished family tradition. He also knew of the intense rivalry that burned between Orlando and his younger brother Felix. Both were exceptional pilots, both had risen through the ranks with astonishing speed to hold one of the most envied roles in the Royal Air Force—that of flight commander on the cutting-edge, controversial Typhoon Squadron. Orlando, the elder, had recently surpassed Felix by achieving the status of Officer Commanding Weapons Flight—the highest flying position.

To cut short such a glittering career was a terrible blow to have to deal. There was no pleasant way of doing it, so he was left only with the option of being honest.

‘No. Given the information I have in front of me I have no choice but to sign you off with immediate effect. It’ll take a while for a firm diagnosis to be made, but at the moment all the signs point to a condition called Stargardt’s Macular Dystrophy.’

Still Orlando didn’t move. Only the muscle flickering beneath the lean, tanned plane of his cheek hinted at the emotion that must be raging beneath his impassive exterior.

‘I can still see. I can still fly. Surely this can remain confidential?’

The consultant shook his head. ‘Not as far as the RAF are concerned. Who you choose to tell in your personal life is your decision. Your ability to live a completely normal life will be unaffected, for the moment at least, so no one will need to know until you feel able to tell them.’

‘I see.’ Orlando gave a short, bitter laugh which was edged with despair. ‘My life will be normal “for the moment at least.” I guess you’re about to tell me all that’s going to change?’

‘I’m afraid it’s a degenerative condition.’

Orlando stood up abruptly. ‘Thanks for your time, Andrew.’

‘Orlando, wait—please—there must be questions you need to ask…other things you want to know…?’

His voice trailed off as Orlando turned back to face him. His height and the powerful breadth of his shoulders made the desolation on his face all the more terrible.

‘No. You’ve told me all I need to hear.’

‘I have some literature for you to read when you’re ready.’ Andrew slid a leaflet across the desk and continued in a tone of forced optimism. ‘A diagnosis like this can take some time to sink in, and it helps if you have someone to talk to. Are you still seeing that super girl? Quite a high-flyer—lawyer, wasn’t she?’

Orlando paused, seeming to weigh up his answer. ‘Arabella. She’s a corporate financier. Yes, we’re still…seeing each other.’

‘Good.’ Andrew gave a relieved smile, and added carefully, ‘And Felix? He’s home at the moment, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. We were both taking some time out at Easton before beginning another tour of duty next week.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘It looks like he’ll be going alone.’

Emerging from the consulting room into the London street, Orlando blinked.

It was an overcast January day, but even the cold grey light filtering through the dark clouds hurt his eyes. He didn’t let himself hesitate, refused to reach out for the reassurance of the handrail at the side of the stone steps.

He would do this without support of any kind. From anyone.

There was a hiss of air brakes and a bus moved away from the kerb in front of him, just as a shaft of thin sunlight broke through the cloud. Right ahead, high up on the building opposite, was an advertising hoarding, displaying a huge poster for some classical music CD. It showed a red-haired girl in a billowing ivy-green evening dress.

It was a picture he’d noticed countless times around London since he’d been on leave, but he was suddenly struck by the realisation that until now he’d never really seen it. Like so much else. Letting out a deep, shuddering breath, he tipped his head back and gazed up at her. Her huge, luminous amber-coloured eyes seemed to be full of sadness as they locked with his, and though her pale pink lips were curved into the ghost of a smile they seemed to tremble with uncertainty.

At that moment it hit him.

Gazing up at her, he saw with brutal clarity everything he was losing. And he felt the darkness that would soon engulf his vision wrap itself around his heart.