His Cinderella Mistress

‘January.’ She turned back to the man determinedly.

He gave the semblance of a smile as he leant forward to pour the two glasses of champagne himself, competently, assuredly, not a single drop of the bubbly liquid reaching the top of the glass to spill over. ‘That’s what usually follows December,’ he drawled dismissively.

‘No, you misunderstood me.’ She shook her head, smiling. ‘My name is January.’

‘Ah.’ The smile deepened, showing even white teeth against his tanned skin. ‘Max,’ he supplied as economically.

Not exactly a scintillating conversationalist, she decided, studying him over the rim of her champagne glass. The strong, silent type, maybe, the sort of man who only spoke when he had something significant to say.

‘Short for Maximillian?’ she asked lightly.

His smile faded, leaving his face looking slightly grim. ‘Short for Maxim. My mother was a great reader, I believe,’ he added scornfully.

Her eyes widened at his tone. ‘Don’t you know?’

His gaze narrowed. ‘No.’

Obviously not a subject to be pursued!

‘And are you in the area on business, Max?’ she prompted curiously; after all, it was New Year’s Eve, a time when most people would be with family or friends.

‘Something like that.’ He nodded tersely. ‘Do you work at the hotel every night, or just New Year’s Eve?’

She found herself frowning slightly, unsure whether he had meant the question to sound insulting—as it did!—or whether it was just his usual abruptness of manner.

She shrugged, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt—for the moment. ‘I work here most Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings,’ she added the last pointedly.

‘And as this is a Friday—’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed huskily. ‘Look, I’m afraid I have to go back on in a few minutes,’ she added with a certain amount of relief; this man was more than a little hard going!

He nodded. ‘I’ll wait for you at the end of the evening.’ He had so far made no effort to drink any of his own champagne, merely continued to look at January with that almost blinkless stare.

Which was just as unnerving close up as it had been from the distance for the last hour while she sang!

She had accepted his invitation on impulse—curiosity?—and now she was regretting it. Okay, so his brooding stillness made Heathcliff and Mr Rochester, two of her favourite romantic heroes, seem almost chatty by comparison, but it was also extremely uncomfortable to be stared at in this single-minded fashion.

She gave a brief shake of her head. ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ She smiled to take some of the bluntness out of her own words; after all, he was a guest at the hotel, and she just another person employed here. ‘Usually I finish about one-thirty, two o’clock, depending on how busy we are, but as tonight is New Year’s Eve I’m here until three o’clock.’

And by the time she had driven home it would be almost four o’clock, by which time she would be physically shattered but mentally unable to relax, which meant she would stay up until her sisters woke shortly before six. Not an ideal arrangement by any means, but she knew she was lucky to have found this job so close to home at all, so beggars couldn’t be choosers.

‘I’ll still wait,’ Max answered her evenly.

A perplexed frown furrowed her brow; this was exactly the reason she had always kept a polite, if friendly, distance between herself and the male guests staying at the hotel. What had prompted her to make an exception in this man’s case…?

She felt a shiver run down the length of her spine—of pleasure or apprehension?—as that deep blue gaze moved slowly down over the bareness of her shoulders in the strapless dress, the gentle swell of her breasts, the slenderness of her waist. Almost as if those long, artistically elegant hands had actually touched and caressed her!

‘I’ll wait,’ he repeated softly. ‘After all, what’s a few more hours…?’ he added enigmatically.

Very reassuring—she didn’t think! In fact, there was a decidedly unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach, accompanied by mental flashes of those recent newspaper articles about lone women being attacked in this area late at night.

Not that this obviously wealthy and assured man gave the impression of being in the category of the Night Striker—as the more lurid tabloids had dubbed him—but then, what did an attacker actually look like? The other man probably appeared perfectly normal during the day, too—it was only at night that he turned into a monster! She didn’t—

‘Tell me, January—’ Max sat forward intently now, that dark blue gaze once again unfathomable as he looked at her face ‘—do you believe in love at first sight?’

The hand holding her champagne glass shook slightly at the unexpectedness of his question, her movements carefully deliberate as she placed the glass down on the table in front of her.

What had happened to the social pleasantries? The ‘hello, how are you?’ The ‘do you have any family?’ The ‘when you aren’t singing what do you like to do?’ How did you go straight from ‘how often do you work at the hotel?’ to ‘do you believe in love at first sight?’ The obvious answer to that was—you didn’t!

January’s features softened into gentle mockery. ‘In a word—no,’ she dismissed derisively. ‘Lust at first sight—maybe. But love? Impossible, don’t you think?’ she scorned softly.

He didn’t so much as blink at her mocking reply. ‘I was asking you,’ he reminded softly.

‘And I said no.’ She was beginning to feel slightly rattled by this man’s sheer force of will. ‘How can you possibly fall in love with someone without even knowing them? What happens when you discover all those annoying little habits that weren’t apparent at first sight?’ she attempted to lighten the conversation. ‘Like not squeezing the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube? Like reading the newspaper first and leaving it in a mess? Like walking around barefoot whenever possible? Like—’

‘I get the picture, January,’ he cut in dryly, something like warmth lightening the intense blue of his eyes. ‘Are you telling me that you do all those things?’

Was she? Well…yes. And the toothpaste thing annoyed March to the point of screaming. And May was always complaining about what a mess she made when she read the newspaper. As for walking about barefoot—that was something she had done since she was a very small child; it was also something that was totally impractical when you lived in a working farmhouse. Once she had stepped on a plank of wood and ended up with a nail stuck in her foot, followed by a trip to the hospital for a tetanus injection, and another time she had stepped on a hot coal that had fallen out of the fire, again followed by a trip to the local hospital.

‘I’ve been assured that love is supposed to nullify things like that,’ Max continued dryly at her lack of reply. ‘After all, no one is one-hundred-per-cent perfect.’

She had a feeling that this man might be, had a definite intuition that he would never squeeze the toothpaste tube in the middle, or leave the newspaper in a mess, and as for walking about barefoot—! No, this man gave the impression that everything he did was deliberate, carefully thought through, without fault. But perhaps that was a fault in itself…?

Although why she was even giving his question any serious thought she had no idea; it was simply ridiculous to suggest you could fall in love with the way someone looked!

‘It may do, Max—but it doesn’t stop hundreds of couples arriving in the divorce courts every year claiming incompatibility because of “unreasonable behaviour” by one or other partner,’ she derided.

He smiled, his gaze definitely warmer now. ‘I don’t think they’re referring to how you do or do not squeeze a tube of toothpaste,’ he drawled.

‘Probably not.’ She shrugged. ‘But I believe I’ve adequately answered your initial question.’ Although why he had asked it at all was beyond her.

Next time she had an impulse like this, she would ignore it—no matter how handsomely intriguing the man was!

‘More than adequately,’ he confirmed derisively. ‘And I have to say, January, it’s very unusual to meet a woman with such an honest view to what everyone else chooses to romantically call love.’

January eyed him warily; she didn’t think she had actually said that was the way she felt towards falling in love! ‘It is?’

‘It is,’ he confirmed softly. ‘But—’

‘January, I’m really sorry to interrupt.’ John, the barman, appeared beside their table.

‘Not at all.’ She turned to him with a certain amount of relief. ‘Is it time for me to go back on?’ she asked hopefully; she really had had enough of this conversation. And Max…

John grimaced. ‘I just thought I should let you know Meridew is on the prowl again,’ he warned, referring to the over-efficient manager of the hotel who had just strolled into the lounge bar, his gaze sweeping critically over the room.

Strictly speaking January wasn’t exactly a member of the hotel staff, but that didn’t stop Peter Meridew, the hotel manager, having his say if he was displeased about something. January had never tested him before on having a drink with one of the hotel guests, but perhaps that came under the heading of ‘displeasing’ him? Whatever, January needed this job too much to risk losing it over a man she would never see again after this evening.

‘Thanks, John.’ She smiled up at him before turning back to Max. ‘I really do have to go.’ She managed to keep her voice evenly unemotional as she prepared to leave.