Hired: Mistress: Wanted: Mistress and Mother / His Private Mistress / The Millionaire's Secret Mistress

Bound to him by contract, surrendering to him for pleasure…

Hired: Mistress

Three pulse-racing, glamorous romances from three beloved Mills & Boon authors!

HIRED: MISTRESS

Wanted: Mistress and Mother by Carol Marinelli His Private Mistress by Chantelle Shaw The Millionaire’s Secret Mistress by Kathryn Ross

HIS INDEPENDENT BRIDE

Wife Against Her Will by Sara Craven The Wedlocked Wife by Maggie Cox Bertoluzzi’s Heiress Bride by Catherine Spencer

Hired: Mistress

Carol Marinelli

Chantelle Shaw

Kathryn Ross

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as writer. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and after chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth – writing. The third question asked – what are your hobbies? well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered swimming and tennis, but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian open – I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Don’t miss Carol Marinelli’s exciting new novel, Knight on the Children’s Ward, available in June 2010 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

CHAPTER ONE

INAPPROPRIATE.

It was the first word that sprang to mind as dark, clearly irritated eyes swung round to face her, black eyes that stared down at Matilda, scrutinising her face unashamedly, making her acutely aware of her—for once—expertly made-up face. The vivid pink lipstick the beautician had insisted on to add a splash of colour to her newly straightened ash blonde hair and porcelain complexion seemed to suddenly render her mouth immovable, as, rather than slowing down to assist, the man she had asked for directions had instead, after a brief angry glance, picked up speed and carried on walking.

Inappropriate, because generally when you stopped someone to ask for directions, especially in a hospital, you expected to be greeted with a courteous nod or smile, for the person to actually slow down, instead of striding ahead and glaring back at you with an angry question of their own.

‘Where?’

Even though he uttered just a single word, the thick, clipped accent told Matilda that English wasn’t this man’s first language. Matilda’s annoyance at this response was doused a touch. Perhaps he was in the hospital to visit a sick relative, had just flown in to Australia from…In that split second her mind worked rapidly, trying to place him—his appearance was Mediterranean, Spanish or Greek perhaps, or maybe…

‘Where is it you want to go?’ he barked, finally deigning to slow down a fraction, the few extra words allowing Matilda to place his strong accent—he was Italian!

‘I wanted to know how to find the function room,’ she said slowly, repeating the question she had already asked, berating her luck that the only person walking through the maze of the hospital administration corridors spoke little English. That the tall, imposing man she had had to resort to for directions was blatantly annoyed at the intrusion. ‘I’m trying to get there for the opening of the hospital garden. I’m supposed to be there in…’ She glanced down at her watch and let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Actually, I was supposed to be there five minutes ago.’

‘Merda!’ As he glanced at his watch the curse that escaped his lips, though in Italian, wasn’t, Matilda assumed, particularly complimentary, and abruptly stepping back she gave a wide-eyed look, before turning smartly on her heel and heading off to find her own way. He’d made it exceptionally clear that her request for assistance had been intrusive but now he was being downright rude. She certainly wasn’t going to stand around and wait for the translation—she’d find the blessed function room on her own!

‘I’m sorry.’ He caught up with her in two long strides, but Matilda marched on, this angry package of testosterone the very last thing she needed this morning.

‘No, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ Matilda called back over her shoulder, pushing the button—any button—on the lift and hoping to get the hell out of there. ‘You’re clearly busy.’

‘I was cursing myself, not you.’ He gave a tiny grimace, shrugged very wide shoulders in apology, which sweetened the explanation somewhat, and Matilda made a mental correction. His English was, in fact, excellent. It was just his accent that was incredibly strong—deep and heavy, and, Matilda reluctantly noted, incredibly sensual. ‘I too am supposed to be at the garden opening, I completely forgot that they’d moved the time forward. My secretary has decided to take maternity leave.’

‘How inconsiderate of her!’ Matilda murmured under her breath, before stepping inside as the lift slid open.

‘Pardon?’

Beating back a blush, Matilda stared fixedly ahead, unfortunately having to wait for him to press the button, as she was still none the wiser as to where the function room was.

‘I didn’t quite catch what you said,’ he persisted.

‘I didn’t say anything,’ Matilda lied, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, or, at the very least, the blessed lift would get moving. There was something daunting about him, something incredibly confronting about his manner, his voice, his eyes, something very inappropriate.

There was that word again, only this time it had nothing to do with his earlier rude response and everything to do with Matilda’s as she watched dark, olive-skinned hands punching in the floor number, revealing a flash of an undoubtedly expensive gold watch under heavy white cotton shirt cuffs. The scent of his bitter, tangy aftershave was wafting over towards her in the confined space and stinging into her nostrils as she reluctantly dragged in his supremely male scent. Stealing a sideways glance, for the first time Matilda looked at him properly and pieced together the features she had so far only glimpsed.

He was astonishingly good-looking.

The internal admission jolted her—since her breakup with Edward she hadn’t so much as looked at a man—certainly she hadn’t looked at a man in that way. The day she’d ended their relationship, like bandit screens shooting up at the bank counter, it had been as if her hormones had been switched off. Well, perhaps not off, but even simmering would be an exaggeration—the hormonal pot had been moved to the edge of the tiniest gas ring and was being kept in a state of tepid indifference: utterly jaded and completely immune.

Till now!

Never had she seen someone so exquisitely beautiful close up. It was as if some skilled photographer had taken his magic wand and airbrushed the man from the tip of his ebony hair right down to the soft leather of his expensively shod toes. He seemed vaguely familiar—and she tried over and over to place that swarthy, good-looking face, sure that she must have seen him on the TV screen because, if she’d witnessed him in the flesh, Matilda knew she would have remembered the occasion.

God, it was hot.

Fiddling with the neckline of her blouse, Matilda dragged her eyes away and willed the lift to move faster, only realising she’d been holding her breath when thankfully the doors slid open and she released it in a grateful sigh, as in a surprisingly gentlemanly move he stepped aside, gesturing for her to go first. But Matilda wished he’d been as rude on the fourth floor as he had been on the ground, wished, as she teetered along the carpeted floor of the administration wing in unfamiliar high heels, that she was walking behind instead of ahead of this menacing stranger, positive, absolutely positive that those black eyes were assessing her from a male perspective, excruciatingly aware of his eyes burning into her shoulders. She could almost feel the heat emanating from them as they dragged lower down to the rather too short second half of her smart, terribly new charcoal suit. And if legs could have blushed, then Matilda’s were glowing as she felt his burning gaze on calves that were encased in the sheerest of stockings.

‘Oh!’ Staring at the notice-board, she bristled as he hovered over her shoulder, reading with growing indignation the words beneath the hastily drawn black arrow. ‘The opening’s been moved to the rooftop.’

‘Which makes more sense,’ he drawled, raising a curious, perfectly arched eyebrow at her obvious annoyance, before following the arrow to a different set of lifts. ‘Given that it is the rooftop garden that’s being officially opened today and not the function room.’

‘Yes, but…’ Swallowing her words, Matilda followed him along the corridor. The fact she’d been arguing for the last month for the speeches to be held in the garden and not in some bland function room had nothing to do with this man. Admin had decided that a brief champagne reception and speeches would be held here, followed by a smooth transition to the rooftop where Hugh Keller, CEO, would cut the ribbon.

The logistics of bundling more than a hundred people, in varying degrees of health, into a couple of lifts hadn’t appeared to faze anyone except Matilda—until now.

But her irritation was short-lived, replaced almost immediately by the same flutter of nerves that had assailed her only moments before, her palms moist as she clenched her fingers into a fist, chewing nervously on her bottom lip as the lift doors again pinged open.

She didn’t want to go in.

Didn’t want that disquieting, claustrophobic feeling to assail her again. She almost turned and ran, her mind whirring for excuses—a quick dash to the loo perhaps, a phone call she simply had to make—but an impatient foot was tapping, fingers pressing the hold button, and given that she was already horribly late, Matilda had no choice.

Inadeguato.

As she stepped in hesitantly beside him, the word taunted him.

Inadeguato—to be feeling like this, to be thinking like this.

Dante could almost smell the arousal in the air as the doors closed and the lift jolted upwards. But it wasn’t just her heady, feminine fragrance that reached him as he stood there, more the presence of her, the…He struggled for a word to describe his feelings for this delectable stranger, but even with two languages at his disposal, an attempt to sum up what he felt in a single word utterly failed him.

She was divine.

That was a start at least—pale blonde hair was sleeked back from an elfin face, vivid green eyes were surrounded by thick eyelashes and that awful lipstick she’d been wearing only moments ago had been nibbled away now—revealing dark, full red lips, lips that were almost too plump for her delicate face, and Dante found himself wondering if she’d had some work done on herself, for not a single line marred her pale features, her delicate, slightly snubbed nose absolutely in proportion to her petite features. She was certainly a woman who took care of herself. Her eyes were heavily made up, her hair fragranced and glossy—clearly the sort of woman who spent a lot of time in the beauty parlour. Perhaps a few jabs of collagen had plumped those delicious lips to kissable proportions, maybe a few units of Botox had smoothed the lines on her forehead, Dante thought as he found himself scrutinising her face more closely than he had a woman’s in a long time.

A very long time.

He knew that it was wrong to be staring, inadeguato to be feeling this stir of lust for a woman he had never met, a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

A woman who wasn’t his wife.

The lift shuddered, and he saw her brow squiggle into a frown, white teeth working her lips as the lift shuddered to a halt, and Dante’s Botox theory went sailing out of the absent window!

‘We’re stuck!’ Startled eyes turned to him as the lift jolted and shuddered to a halt, nervous fingers reaching urgently for the panel of buttons, but Dante was too quick for her, his hand closing around hers, pulling her finger back from hitting the panic button.

She felt as if she’d been branded—senses that had been on high alert since she’d first seen him screeched into overdrive, her own internal panic button ringing loudly now as his flesh closed around hers, the impact of his touch sending her into a spin, the dry, hot sensation of his fingers tightening around hers alarming her way more than the jolting lift.

‘We are not stuck. This lift sometimes sticks here…see!’ His fingers loosened from hers and as the lift shuddered back into life, for the first time Matilda noticed the gold band around his ring finger and it both disappointed and reassured her. The simple ring told her that this raw, testosterone-laden package of masculinity was already well and truly spoken for and suddenly Matilda felt foolish, not just for her rather pathetic reaction to the lift halting but for the intense feelings he had so easily evoked. She gave an apologetic grimace.

‘Sorry. I’m just anxious to get there!’

‘You seem tense.’

‘Because I am tense,’ Matilda admitted. The knowledge that he was married allowed her to let down her guard a touch now, sure in her own mind she had completely misread things, that the explosive reaction to him hadn’t been in the least bit mutual, almost convincing herself that it was nerves about the opening that had set her on such a knife edge. Realising the ambiguity of her statement, Matilda elaborated. ‘I hate this type of thing—’ she started, but he jumped in, actually nodding in agreement.

‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘There are maybe a hundred places I have to be this morning and instead I will be standing in some stupido garden on the top of a hospital roof, telling people how happy I am to be there…’

‘Stupid?’ Matilda’s eyes narrowed at his response, anger bristling in her as he, albeit unwittingly, derided the months of painstaking work she had put into the garden they were heading up to. ‘You think the garden is stupid?’ Appalled, she swung around to confront him, realising he probably didn’t know that she was the designer of the garden. But that wasn’t the point—he had no idea who he was talking to, had spouted his arrogant opinion with no thought to who might hear it, no thought at all. But Dante was saved from her stinging response by the lift doors opening.

‘Don’t worry. Hopefully it won’t take too long and we can quickly be out of there.’ He rolled his eyes, probably expecting a sympathetic response, probably expecting a smooth departure from this meaningless, fleeting meeting, but Matilda was running behind him, tapping him smartly on the shoulder.

‘Have you any idea the amount of work that goes into creating a garden like this?’

‘No,’ he answered rudely. ‘But I know down to the last cent what it cost and, frankly, I can think of many more important things the hospital could have spent its money on.’

They were walking quickly, too quickly really for Matilda, but rage spurred her to keep up with him. ‘People will get a lot of pleasure from this garden—sick people,’ she added for effect, but clearly unmoved he just shrugged.

‘Maybe,’ he admitted, ‘but if I were ill, I’d far rather that the latest equipment was monitoring me than have the knowledge that a garden was awaiting, if I ever made it up there.’

‘You’re missing the point…’

‘I didn’t realise there was one,’ he frowned. ‘I’m merely expressing an opinion and, given that it’s mostly my money that paid for this “reflective garden”, I happen to think I am entitled to one.’

‘Your money?’

‘My firm’s.’ He nodded, revealing little but at least allowing Matilda to discount the movie-star theory! ‘Initially I was opposed when I heard what the hospital intended spending the donation on, but then some novice put in such a ridiculously low tender, I decided to let it go ahead. No doubt the landscape firm is now declaring bankruptcy, but at the end of the day the hospital has its garden and I appear a man of the people.’ All this was said in superior tones with a thick accent so that Matilda was a second or two behind the conversation, blinking angrily as each word was deciphered and finally hit its mark. ‘Never look a gift pony in the mouth.’

‘Horse,’ she retorted as she followed this impossible, obnoxious man up the disabled ramp that she had had installed to replace the three concrete steps and opened the small door that led onto the rooftop. ‘The saying is never look a gift horse…’ Her words petered out, the anger that fizzed inside, the nerves that had assailed her all morning fading as she stepped outside.

Outside into what she, Matilda Hamilton, had created.

The barren, concrete landscape of the hospital roof had become available when the helipad had been relocated to the newly built emergency department the previous year. The hospital had advertised in the newspaper, inviting tenders to transform the nondescript area into a retreat for patients, staff and relatives. A landscape designer by trade, most of her work to that point had been courtesy of her fiancé, Edward—a prominent real estate agent whose wealthy clients were only too happy to part with generous sums of money in order to bolster their properties prior to sale, or to transform Nana’s neglected garden into a small oasis prior to an executor’s auction. But as their relationship had steadily deteriorated, Matilda’s desire to make it on her own had steadily increased. Despite Edwards’s negativity and scorn, she’d registered a business name and duly made an appointment to take measurements of the rooftop and start her plans. Though she hadn’t expected to make it past the first round, the second she had stepped onto the roof, excitement had taken over. It was as if she could see how it should be, could envision this dry, bland area transformed—endless potted trees supplying wind breaks and shade decorated with fairy lights to make it magical at night, cobbled paths where patients could meander and find their own space for reflection, mosaic tables filled with colour, messages of hope and inspiration adorning them like the stained-glass windows of a church where families could sit and share a coffee.

And water features!

Matilda’s signature pieces were definitely in the plural—the gentle sound of running water audible at every turn, blocking out the hum of traffic or nearby people to enable peace or a private conversation. Hugh Keller had listened as she’d painted her vision with words, her hands flailing like windmills as she’d invited him into her mind’s eye, described in minute detail the image she could so clearly see—a centre piece of water jets, shooting from the ground at various, random intervals, catching the sun and the colour from the garden—a centre piece where the elderly could sit and watch and children could play. And now that vision was finally a reality. In just a few moments’ time, when Hugh cut the ribbon, the water features would be turned on and the garden declared open for all to enjoy!

‘Matilda!’ From all angles her name was being called and Matilda was glad for her momentary popularity—glad for the excuse to slip away from the man she’d walked in with. Not that he’d notice, Matilda thought, accepting congratulations and a welcome glass of champagne, but cross with herself that on this, perhaps the most important day of her life, a day when she should be making contacts, focusing on her achievement, instead she was recalling the brief encounter that had literally left her breathless, her mind drifting from the vitally important to the completely irrelevant.

He’d been nothing but rude, Matilda reminded herself firmly, smiling as Hugh waved through the crowd and made his way over towards her.

Very rude, Matilda reiterated to herself—good-looking he may be, impossibly sexy even, but he was obnoxious and—

‘Hi, Hugh.’ Matilda kissed the elderly gentleman on the cheek and dragged her mind back to the important event that was taking place. She listened intently as Hugh briefed her on the order of the speeches and part she would take in the day’s events, but somewhere between Hugh reminding her to thank the mayor and the various sponsors Matilda’s mind wandered, along with her eyes—coming to rest on that haughty profile that had both inflamed and enraged her since the moment of impact. Watching a man who stood a foot above a dignified crowd, engaged in conversation yet somehow remaining aloof, somehow standing apart from the rest.

And maybe he sensed he was being watched, perhaps it was her longing that made him turn around, but suddenly he was looking at her, making her feel just as he had a few moments ago in the lift, plunging her back to sample again those giddy, confusing sensations he somehow triggered. Suddenly her ability to concentrate on what Hugh was saying was reduced to ADHD proportions, the chatter in the garden fading into a distant hum as he blatantly held her gaze, just stared directly back at her as with cheeks darkening she boldly did the same. Although the sensible part of her mind was telling her to terminate things, to tear her eyes away, turn her back on him, halt this here and now, somehow she switched her internal remote to mute, somehow she tuned out the warnings and focused instead on the delicious picture.

‘Once things calm down, hopefully we can discuss it.’ Someone inadvertently knocking her elbow had Matilda snapping back to attention, but way too late to even attempt a recovery, Matilda realised as Hugh gave her a concerned look. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m so sorry, Hugh.’ Reaching for her mental remote control, Matilda raised the volume, glanced at the gold band on the stranger’s ring finger and, pointedly turning her back, flashed a genuinely apologetic smile. ‘I really am. I completely missed that last bit of what you said. I’m a bundle of nerves at the moment, checking out that everything’s looking OK…’

‘Everything’s looking wonderful, Matilda,’ Hugh soothed, making her feel even guiltier! ‘You’ve done an amazing job. I can’t believe the transformation—just a bare old helipad and rooftop and now it’s this oasis. Everyone who’s been up here, from porters to consultants, has raved about it. I’m just glad it’s finally going to be open for the people who really deserve to enjoy it: the patients and relatives.’

‘Me, too.’ Matilda smiled. ‘So, what was it you wanted to discuss, Hugh?’

‘A job.’ Hugh smiled. ‘Though I hear you’re rather in demand these days.’

‘Only thanks to you,’ Matilda admitted. ‘What sort of job?’

But it was Hugh who was distracted now, smiling at the mayor who was making his way towards them. ‘Perhaps we could talk after the speeches—when things have calmed down a bit.’

‘Of course.’ Matilda nodded. ‘I’ll look forward to it!’ More than Hugh knew. The thought of giving a speech—of facing this crowd, no matter how friendly—had filled her with dread for weeks now. The business side of running a business was really not her forte, but she’d done her best to look the part: had been to the beautician’s and had her hair and make-up done—her hair today was neatly put up instead of thrown into a ponytail, expensive foundation replacing the usual slick of sun block and mascara. And the shorts, T-shirts and beloved Blundstone boots, which were her usual fare, had been replaced with a snappy little suit and painfully high heels. As the dreaded speeches started, Matilda stood with mounting heart rate and a very fixed smile, listening in suicidal despair as all her carefully thought-out lines and supposedly random thoughts were one by one used by the speakers that came before her. Tossing the little cards she had so carefully prepared into her—new—handbag, Matilda took to the microphone, smile firmly in place as Hugh adjusted it to her rather small height and the PA system shrieked in protest. Staring back at the mixture of curious and bored faces, only one really captured her, and she awaited his reaction—wondered how he would respond when he realised who he had insulted. But he wasn’t even looking—his attention held by some ravishing brunette who was blatantly flirting with him. Flicking her eyes away, Matilda embarked on the first speech in her adult life, carefully thanking the people Hugh had mentioned before taking a deep breath and dragging in the heady fragrance of springtime and, as she always did, drawing strength from it.