His Mistress Proposal?: Public Scandal, Private Mistress / His Mistress, His Terms / The Secret Mistress Arrangement

‘The poor thing had such a rotten start to her holiday that I’m determined to make it up to her.’ Melanie was on an unstoppable roll now. ‘I was going to get her to drive around and pick up samples and menus and product lists from some of the places in my research file which coincide with the markets that she’ll find useful, but if she’s doing the driving she won’t be able to enjoy the scenery.’ She paused expectantly and Veronica gritted her teeth as Luc obligingly met his cue.

‘That’s very true. You really want someone else behind the wheel … Ashley, or Ross perhaps?’ he suggested helpfully.

‘Lucien! You know Ashley is hopeless with a left-hand drive and she wouldn’t be at all happy if we dragged Ross away from her side. Anyway, it should be someone who knows something about the area so Veronica won’t have to bury her head in maps.’

‘Mmm, I guess it’ll have to be Miles, then.’

‘Lucien!’ Melanie halted at the corner where the footpath gave way to the stony grass verge beside the rows of vines, her frustration turning to the tug of a smile as she realised that his bland response to her heavy-handed hint was a tease. ‘Miles is trying to get the new bathroom done by next week.’ Lucien opened his mouth. ‘And Mum is busy putting the garden to rights!’ she added with a twinkle.

Veronica could only watch helplessly as her destiny was whisked out of her own hands by joint conspiracy.

‘I could learn how to drive if someone could show me how.’ Sophie had cleverly worked out the adult game and joined in, grinning as she broke off a crusty end of one of the bread sticks and stuffed it in her mouth. ‘Luc could teach me. He’s a really good driver.’

‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ he said modestly. ‘And I happen to have a rather classy convertible, which is perfect for zipping about the countryside scoping out the scenery. And nothing much to do but sit around and fret over my misfortunes.’

‘So—this way we kill three birds with one stone. Well, that’s settled, then!’ beamed Melanie, wafting her swathed elbow like the wave of a magic wand.

Luc showed a rather terrifying affinity for reading minds as he directed a heavy-lidded look of searing amusement into appalled dove-grey eyes and declared softly:

‘Veronica—you shall go to the ball …’

CHAPTER SIX

FOUR days later Veronica had realised that she had referenced the wrong fairy tale. She felt more like Sleeping Beauty than Cinderella, as her mind and body were slowly awakened to an enchanting new world of bewitching possibilities, horizons that were once limited to what was practicable, expanded to the limitless vista of what if …

Not that Lucien continued to put overt pressure on her to change her mind about him—he had been far too cunning for that. After his initial aggressive move he seemed prepared to laze in wait and let the sensuous allure of the time and the place and the extravagant beauty of her surroundings soak into Veronica’s heart and soul, and undermine her efforts to maintain a polite standard of decorum. The landscape, which looked so harsh and stony at first sight, was astonishingly lush and verdant, and everywhere they went there were visions of bursting ripeness—from the heavily laden apricot trees they passed on the roads, the deep orange fruit clustered on the bowing branches, to the fields of corn and brilliant yellow sunflowers, their huge, flat faces turned to follow the path of their golden namesake across the azure sky, to the rows of glossy, brightly coloured fruits and vegetables temptingly laid out for display on the market tables.

Veronica had been seduced by Paris, but she quite simply fell in love with Provence, and Lucien was right there beside her to assist her fall. Under the benign instructions of her well-meaning fairy godmother, he introduced her to a feast of the senses that she would have had to be a saint to resist.

Even in holy surroundings he seemed to find a way to lead her into temptation.

‘Which ones do you like?’

Melanie’s latest errand had sent them to an early morning farmer’s market where Veronica had taken dozens of photographs and Luc picked up an order of thick-skinned dried sausages and olive oils, and then to the bookstore at the ancient Cistercian Abbey at Sénanque, a working monastery set amongst the blazing purple lavender fields in a remote valley high in the Vaucluse. They had already purchased the list of titles Melanie had asked for from the superb array of books about Provence food and customs and now Veronica had her nose pressed wistfully to the glass cabinet that displayed a range of religious souvenirs and crafts. She knew that santons were a famous product of Provence but she had never seen such fine examples.

‘I can’t decide. I love all of them.’ She sighed, looking at the groupings of small, hand-painted terracotta figurines depicting various nativity scenes.

‘Then why don’t you buy them all?’ murmured Luc, peering over her shoulder.

There spoke a millionaire!

‘Because I can’t afford to,’ said Veronica wryly. ‘But I am thinking that something like those packaged sets would look good in the Out Of The Box “Corporate Christmas” catalogue, although they might be a bit too expensive for bulk gifts—’

She broke off, biting her lip. She had tried to avoid talking directly about her company to Luc, conscious that he had suspected her of wanting free advice and determined to prove him wrong, but it was practically impossible to suppress her excitement when a great idea popped into her head or she saw something in a market that she was eager to add to her inventory.

‘Not if you’re interested in the top end of the market,’ said Luc, leaning in for a closer look. ‘These are obviously collector-quality, and don’t forget you’re looking at the retail price. You could make them small but exclusive private offerings to selected customers—that always goes down well. I can see company wives appreciating the unique character of a gift that could join the family Christmas heirlooms. If you played that angle up, the giving of additional pieces could even turn into an ongoing company tradition. And for non-Christian employees there are other santonniers who produce traditional secular characters representing different trades and crafts,’ he finished shrewdly, giving her yet another glimpse of the forward-thinking that was the reason he was a millionaire.

She had already jotted down all the details she would need to investigate further, enabling her to justify the expense as she gave into the temptation of selecting a boxed set for herself—a small, stylised Mary and Joseph and a thumbnail-sized baby Jesus firmly tucked up in his white swaddling-cloth in the manger.

Luc watched with indulgent amusement as she made her careful choice, with a regretful glance at the shepherds and animals, all cast to the identical, modest scale of her selection, that the shop assistant was locking back up in the display cabinet.

‘Don’t worry, by next year you’ll probably be so successful you’ll be able to come back and buy the whole stable,’ he said, and she hurried off to pay and bury her nose in a rack of calendars, turning her back on him to hide the absurd glow of pleasure at the implied praise in his throwaway remark.

They walked back to the car park past the rows of lavender, their spiky purple-topped stalks clotted with humming bees, and Luc paused to offload his paper carry-bags in the boot.

‘Do you prefer it up or down?’ he asked as they got into the car, Veronica looked at him blankly for a moment before she realised he was talking about the convertible’s hard-top.

‘Oh … I don’t mind—whatever you like,’ she said, her diffidence not quite disguising her flustered thoughts, and he clicked his tongue.

‘Tsk, tsk, Miss Veronica … what naughty thoughts are buzzing about in your brain?’ he speculated wickedly, but fortunately the shadow of the canopy as it descended to snap into place threw a light veil across her pinkening cheeks as he twitched off her hat to throw it along with his into the rear jump seat.

‘So much for your boasting about the charms of zipping about in your convertible,’ she summoned the composure to taunt back as they drove along the narrow, winding road up through the rocky hills.

‘Well, I enjoy the wind in my face, but there’s a lot to be said for the sybaritic pleasures of air-conditioning when it’s forty degrees outside,’ he admitted as he dialled the internal temperature down to a delicious, skin-chilling coolness. He slanted her a brief look as he added blandly: ‘Actually, like you, I enjoy it any which way … I think variety adds a certain piquancy to the experience,’ he continued smoothly. ‘But I never like to disappoint a lady, so I always offer her first choice.’

As usual she couldn’t resist trying to puncture his masculine confidence. ‘We are still talking about the car, aren’t we?’ she said primly.

‘Of course, what else?’ He grinned. ‘Hungry yet?’

‘Ravenous.’ It had been several hours since her breakfast of fruit and croissants, and taste-testing at the market had only made her hungry for more. In spite of the heat, her appetite had increased markedly since she arrived. Flavours seemed more intense, the cooking fragrances more delicious, the wines headily infused with the very essence of summer.

‘I’m glad I’m doing so much walking about—everything here is so scrumptious it’s difficult to say no.’ She sighed.

‘We are still talking about food, aren’t we?’ deadpanned Luc, and Veronica could only laugh.

‘Then we’ll stop off for lunch at Gordes on the way back,’ he decided, dismissing her half-hearted suggestion that Melanie would be expecting them back. By now the routine had been established—if any work had to be done it was done in the morning, the heat of the afternoon was time for siesta and the various members of the family to more or less please themselves where they went, only all coming together again in the evening for a leisurely alfresco dinner.

The day before, Veronica and Luc had lunched at a cheap market stall where delicious paella had been ladled out from a huge, simmering cauldron, and the day before that at an elegant, terraced restaurant high above the famous red ochre cliffs of Roussillon, where every dish had been a visual, as well as culinary, feast.

So today it was the little village perched on the crest of a rocky peak, stone houses and winding streets cascading down the hillside from the medieval château and church at the top. In the shady courtyard of a tiny restaurant protected by vine-covered stone walls, Veronica ate chicken roasted to melting tenderness in herbs and served on a little cake of smoothed lentils mixed with vegetables, and gorged herself on a luscious fig tart for dessert.

Mellowed by the food and wine, she stopped inspecting his every word and expression for ulterior meanings and allowed herself to be entertained by his scathing wit and far-ranging conversation, ever more intrigued by the complexities of his personality. In the mature man she could see the echoes of the orphan boy that Melanie had found so disconcerting, his freewheeling mind constantly absorbed by new ideas and challenges, his emotional detachment most obvious when his intellect was fully engaged. Yet he also possessed a deeply sensual side to his nature with which he seemed equally at ease.

Later that afternoon, Veronica was floating dreamily on her back in the swimming pool, spread-eagled arms gently paddling to keep herself afloat, the sun burning hot against her closed eyelids as she continued to ponder the fascinating contradictions in Luc Ryder’s character.

A loud splash invaded her drifting consciousness, destroying the serenity of the pool and causing her limbs to flail as she tried to keep herself afloat on the suddenly choppy surface of the water. At first she thought it must be Sophie doing one of her forbidden ‘bombs’, but as she coughed up a mouthful of water and blinked away the blurry beading along her eyelashes she caught sight of a male body shooting past her under the water.

Instant exhilaration charged through her veins and she jackknifed upright, planting her feet firmly astride on the bottom of the chest-deep pool to brave the slapping waves, sweeping the water from her hair and face as she turned to face the invader. In spite of Melanie’s open invitation she had tried to avoid coming down to the pool when she knew the adult members of the family were using it, several times having backed off after glimpsing Luc cutting smoothly through the water on a seemingly endless series of laps, barely creating a ripple with his streamlined stroke.

Expecting a sleek, seal-dark head to break the water after the dive, followed by a pair of lean, tawny shoulders, she felt a stab of disappointment as she saw Ross Bentley’s chiselled features bob up at the far end of the pool. To her dismay he flashed a smile at her expectant face and began to swim back towards her, head down, his solid arms and legs attacking the water with more aggression than grace.

Uncaring that it might seem rude, Veronica headed for the wide, curving stairs at the near end of the pool, but before she could get there Ross circled around in front of her, one hand reaching up to grip the tiled edge of the pool and pull himself upright, barring her way with his thick body, bronzed to an unlikely tan by the exclusive Melbourne sun-bed clinic Ashley had boasted they had both attended to prepare for the holiday.

‘What’s your hurry?’ he said, with a smug grin. ‘I saw you swimming earlier—you’re not too bad, for a woman. What say we have a race? I was a surf life-saving champ for years, so to make it fair I’ll let you have a good head start.’

He managed to incorporate some reference to his own superior attributes into almost every statement he made, thought Veronica, aware that to argue would invite more of his unwanted attention. She had offended his ego by ignoring him at their first meeting and he was determined to make her regret it, but she was extremely wary of his over-friendliness and constant preening, sensing that it was less to do with her than with his competitive need to assert his masculinity in front of an Alpha male. Unfortunately, he had all of Luc’s arrogance but none of his insight or critical self-awareness, and his inability to laugh at himself was a serious handicap to his charm.

On the second night of her stay, Veronica had allowed herself to be gently bullied into having dinner with the Reeds when they had some friends over, thinking it would give her the excuse to politely refuse future invitations. The extra company of strangers had provided some welcome camouflage, but she had spent an uncomfortable part of the evening trying to steer clear of Ross’s roving eyes and hands, and since then had taken care not to be left alone with him.