The Rich Man's Royal Mistress

For the rest of the week Melissa waited for him to come back. Of course he didn’t, and after days of echoing silence and slowly fading hope she told herself desperately that it was all for the best.

Kisses meant little, except that her response had been embarrassing enough to send him running. Her heart wasn’t broken—slightly cracked, maybe, but still intact; sinking into a decline like a gently-bred Victorian maiden simply wasn’t an option to a woman of the twenty-first century.

And the erotic dreams that ambushed her in the night were just figments of her sex-starved imagination.

Viewing the situation sensibly, she should be glad she’d learnt something more about the complexity of relationships—if dinner and a few kisses could be called a relationship!—between men and women.

With a last glance at the mountains, she settled back into her seat on the plane. Half an hour from now she’d have left behind her time at the lodge, with its memories of a job she’d enjoyed and a man she’d never forget. She thought bleakly that she now understood what had led her tough brother Gabe into his catastrophic affair with Sara Milton.

Sex had a lot to answer for!

The plane banked, turned away from the lakes and the mountains and set a purposeful course for the North Island. Melissa closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that Hawke’s kisses had not changed her fundamentally, as though he had the power to alter her basic cellular construction.

The thought was utterly ridiculous.

So she wouldn’t consider it. She’d sink herself into her life and not ever think of him again.

But first she’d have a week in Northland, a long, narrow peninsula thrusting towards the tropics, where spring was edging into summer and white beaches warmed under a hot sun.

‘Why?’ Gabe had demanded when she’d rung him the previous night.

‘You might be able to work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but I can’t. I’m taking time out to collate my notes for the paper I’m doing on the internship while the whole experience is fresh in my mind.’

‘You could go to the house in Honolulu.’

‘I want to see a bit more of New Zealand. I’ve been told Northland is just as stunning as the southern lakes district, but in an entirely different way.’

‘It is.’ He sounded resigned. ‘Where will you be staying?’

She told him the name.

‘That sounds like a backpackers’ lodge.’

‘It is, but an upmarket one—I’ve reserved a room to myself.’

‘If you need money I’ll organise—’

She broke in without compunction. ‘You were the one who decided that I should live on my allowance. And you were right—it’s not only extremely good for me to stick to a budget, but I also enjoy doing it. I’m fine, Gabe, don’t fuss.’

After a moment’s silence, he said reluctantly, ‘New Zealand’s safe enough, I suppose, but take care.’

‘I always do,’ she said, smiling.

‘E-mail me the address,’ he commanded. ‘And your room number.’

‘Yes, sir!’

He laughed. ‘All right, I know you’re a big girl now. Have fun.’

Sometimes big brothers—even adored ones—could be a darned nuisance, but although their protectiveness rubbed her independence the wrong way, neither Gabe nor Marco would ever change.

The little town of Russell in the Bay of Islands was busy with tourists and holidaymakers drawn to the region by its rich history, both Maori and European, and its beauty. Built along a beach, its small wooden houses were constrained by hills covered in dark, vigorous forest that Melissa knew was always referred to as ‘the bush’. Neither the vegetation nor the setting reminded her in the least of Hawke Kennedy.

No memories here.

In her small, sparsely furnished room she set up her laptop on the desk and settled down to work. For the next two days she resisted the temptations of cruises with dolphins, of sightseeing and diving, of wine and heritage tours. Every evening she went for a walk along the beach then up a steep hill topped by a flagpole.

And every night in bed she lay awake staring into the darkness.

Soon she’d be over this undignified infatuation. It was just a matter of refusing to surrender to it; she was being obsessive and stupid and girly, but at least no one else knew how silly she was.

The third morning bloomed in soft, fresh splendour, the sun beaming down from a sky so blue and bright it made her blink. However, a tentative dabble in the sea convinced her that it was too cold to swim, so she celebrated the good weather with breakfast at the café along the road and settled down with her notes.

Towards midday she pushed them aside and got up to stretch. ‘A walk,’ she said out loud. ‘I need a walk before lunch.’

She craved solitude, so of course she met a family on the beach—a smiling, vociferous group who engulfed her when she snatched one small daughter out of the way of a particularly boisterous wave. Tourists from Peru, they sorted out into a middle-aged couple, their very handsome son called Jorge, and a married daughter with her husband and two enchanting little girls.

Melissa knew she wasn’t looking her best; unlike the South American women she hadn’t bothered with make-up that morning, and she’d set out without changing her T-shirt and jeans.

Not that it seemed to matter. Jorge gave her a dazzling smile and fell in beside her as they began to move along the beach. By the time they’d reached the other end of the bay he’d invited her to lunch with them at one of the restaurants, an invitation eagerly seconded by his mother.

Her first instinct was to refuse, but why not? Defiance mightn’t be a pretty emotion, but it was better than a nagging sense of humiliation. She was tired of her constant fixation on Hawke. This cheerful, noisy family would keep the useless memories at bay for an hour or so.

So she said, ‘That sounds lovely—thank you very much.’

The Lopez clan wouldn’t hear of her leaving them to change her clothes for something a little more elegant.

‘No, no,’ the señora said briskly. ‘Here is very casual, so we all wear our beach clothes.’

Melissa hid a smile. Their beach clothes had been bought, she was sure, in the most elegant boutiques in Lima. Beside them she must look a peasant.

Lunch was protracted and happy and delicious, and by the end of it the children were sweetly nodding and Melissa also was ready for the siesta that so clearly beckoned the rest of the family.

They insisted on escorting her back to the lodge, then waved goodbye and trooped off in the direction of their hotel. The son lingered, however, just inside the gate.

‘Perhaps you would like to have dinner with us also?’ he suggested, examining her with such open interest and pleasure that a tinge of heat coloured her cheeks.

Melissa was opening her mouth to refuse tactfully when a voice from behind her said, ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

The deep, even tone displayed no emotion whatsoever, but each word was buttressed by steel. Heart jumping, Melissa turned to meet eyes as green and cold as glacier ice. Hawke, she thought, and a wave of pure happiness overwhelmed her.

The South American looked from her face to Hawke’s; with a wry smile he said courteously, ‘But of course. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Melissa.’

And symbolically relinquishing any claim to her, he gave a slight bow and turned away.

Struggling to control her wayward heartbeat, Melissa asked crisply, ‘You had no right to refuse an invitation for me.’

Hawke lifted an arrogant eyebrow. ‘Then go after him.’