The Rich Man's Royal Mistress

Startled, Melissa realised she was still standing in front of the window. Although darkness had finally enveloped the mountains, starshine burnished the waters of the lake, and from behind the peaks a soft glow proclaimed an imminent moon.

A perfect night for lovers, she thought, a strange desolation aching inside her.

Hawke Kennedy was as far out of her reach as any man could be. She was a virgin, for heaven’s sake! If he kissed her she’d probably faint. And his type was definitely not innocent; Jacoba Sinclair, a glorious redhead, oozed sensuous confidence, as had the other women he’d been linked to, including the actress, now a minor star. Lucy? Yes, Lucy St James—and she’d better get back to work!

Guiltily Melissa scurried into the noisy, clattering kitchen, letting the scents and sounds and intense activity banish the memories.

When she finally made it to her bed she stared at the ceiling for what seemed hours before giving in and turning on the light to catch up on her required reading. But the words in her book danced in front of her eyes, refusing to make sense, so she swapped it for a novel. Even that failed her; in the end she switched off the light and lay there until sleep overtook her hours later.

And woke to someone hammering on her door. ‘Hey, Mel, you want breakfast?’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ she called after a horrified glance at her alarm clock.

She was still scrambling to make up time when the manager asked her to drop in to see him. Startled, she presented herself at his office.

‘Come in,’ he said, looking up with a slight frown that intensified when he saw her. ‘Sit down, Mel.’

What sin of commission or omission was she guilty of? She arranged her long legs and tried to look serene.

After shuffling some papers on his desk, the manager said neutrally, ‘I believe you know Hawke Kennedy.’

‘I’ve met him before. I wouldn’t say I knew him.’ Fantasising about a man didn’t count. Hoping fervently that her skin wasn’t as hot as it felt, she asked, ‘Does it matter?’

The manager relaxed into a smile tinged by perplexity. ‘If it doesn’t matter to you, then it’s fine by me. And you can certainly have dinner with him; Lynne’s over her cold so you won’t be needed to fill in for her again.’

Dinner with Hawke Kennedy? Melissa reined in her astonished response. In a colourless voice she said, ‘Oh, right. I’ll get back to work, then.’

He nodded, but when she went to stand up he said, ‘By the way, I’ve just finished reading your submission on the glowworm caves. You’re right—they’re an asset we’ve more or less ignored. I still don’t know what anyone sees in going underground in dank, dark caves—’

‘A sense of adventure,’ she broke in eagerly. ‘And the glowworms are exquisite. It wouldn’t just be the caves—if you turned it into an expedition by taking guests out on the lake and giving them cocktails, then showing them the caves and having dinner afterwards on the boat, it would be great. Especially if there’s a moon.’

He laughed. ‘OK, draw up a plan. Keep costs as low as you can; we want the guests to feel that no expense is spared, but the accountants at Head Office will go over it with a fine-tooth comb.’

She noticed a certain withdrawal in his tone in the last sentence as though he’d thought better of what he said. Of course; he now had her slotted in with the super-rich world of Hawke Kennedy.

Her telephone was ringing when she opened the door of the cupboard she’d been given for an office; she made a dive for it, then had to juggle the receiver until she’d grasped it firmly enough to say abruptly, ‘Melissa.’

‘Hawke.’

Of course she recognised the coolly confident tone. Her stomach clenched and she said inanely, ‘Hello.’

‘Have dinner with me tonight.’

Why? A simple courtesy on his part? That galled her stubborn pride. She didn’t want courtesy from him; she wanted fire and passion and flash and thunder.

Oh, why not aim for the moon? She had a better chance of getting that. And she had to tamp down her first instinct to refuse; he was a guest. Keeping her voice as level as she could, she replied, ‘I’ve already been told that I’m having dinner with you.’

And then flushed, because she’d sounded petulant and—horrors—deprived, as though she wanted this to be a real date! Of course it wasn’t; he was merely being polite to the sister of one of his friends. And she had to accept for the same reason.

‘Sorry if that offended you.’ But he didn’t sound sorry; he sounded amused. ‘I checked with the manager first to make sure it wouldn’t upset his staff roster.’

Very considerate of him! In a wooden voice she said, ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

‘I’ll see you at eight, then.’ Now he sounded crisp and businesslike.

Yes, definitely a duty meal. After tonight he’d probably ignore her. Not that she saw much of the guests, anyway. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said, repressing the rebellion that threatened to curdle each word.

His deep laughter was shaded by more than a hint of irony. ‘I won’t take up much of your spare time.’ And he hung up.

Slowly she replaced the receiver.

She’d really enjoyed being at Shipwreck Bay. No one had expected her to be anything other than what she was—plain Melissa Considine.

With, she thought gloomily, the emphasis on plain. Love them though she did, in some ways having two outrageously handsome brothers had been a cross for her to bear. People expected another magnificent Considine, only to be taken aback when introduced to a lanky woman with strongly marked features and brown hair. Apart from her height, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her; she hadn’t even inherited the famous blue Considine eyes. Hers were a boring light brown.

And she’d totally missed out on the unconscious aura she envied in her brothers. Hawke Kennedy had it too—that powerful pulse of authority and confidence, as though there wasn’t anything in the world he couldn’t deal with.

So what on earth was she going to wear to dinner with him?

A year ago she’d have asked Gabe’s fiancée for advice; Sara had been easy to talk to, and she had impeccable taste—something else Melissa had missed out on.

However, the engagement had broken up in a blaze of publicity, leaving Gabe bitterly unhappy behind an armour of grim control. And she hadn’t seen Sara since.

Think duty, Melissa advised herself curtly. And wear the little black dress you bought in Paris.

It was difficult to keep her mind on her work; during that interminable day she found herself drifting off into daydreams interspersed with periods of painful anticipation that brought heat to her skin, and made her chide herself for her stupidity.

But eventually she was ready. Dissatisfied, she turned away from the mirror. The black dress might be sophisticated, but it drained the colour from her skin so that the blusher she’d used stood out like two streaks of paint on her cheekbones.

Why had she never noticed that before?

Because it had never mattered. Under the tutelage of a tiny, exquisite mother, a true Frenchwoman with superb grooming and clothes, she’d learned to minimise her height and stay in the background. Until tonight she hadn’t wanted to impress any man enough to worry about whether a colour suited her or not.

Or whether she looked sexy.

Disgusted with herself for caring so much about Hawke’s opinion—a man who’d never given her any reason to indulge this stupidly adolescent reaction—she wrenched off the black dress and wiped away her blusher.

She surveyed her scanty wardrobe before setting her jaw and taking down a top in darkly bronze silk with fake bronze and gold ‘jewels’ around the V-neck. Sara had given it to her, along with velvet jeans in the same rich colour. Melissa had never worn them; she’d only packed them because she’d been told New Zealanders were noted for their informality.

So she’d be informal for Hawke Kennedy.

She scrambled into the top and jeans, then surveyed her long, narrow feet in despair. Not one pair of shoes suited the sleek jeans. Eventually she set her jaw and pulled on a pair of high-heeled boots in black.

Her mother would have called the whole outfit vulgar, and told her that the long, slim lines made her look taller. Well, she thought robustly, she didn’t care. At least she looked a little more alive in it. Although that was probably because the twisting and turning of getting dressed had produced a flush in her cheeks.

Frowning, she stared at her reflection. No foundation, she thought defiantly. Her skin was pretty good, even if she did say so herself. What lipstick? Her favourite peach didn’t go with the rich bronze of her clothes. She examined her lip gloss, a shade of soft coppery-pink. If she used that on its own it might look good with the clothes.

It did.