Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress by Bronwyn Jameson

jumped a little as he closed the door, isolating them from the distraction of those voices.
    â€œAnd what about you, Isabelle?” he asked, turning to meet her chary gaze. He could have smiled to ease the moment. He could have backed off and allowed her more space. Instead, he leaned forward and touched a thumb to the dark circle beneath one eye. “You didn’t sleep on my plane. I hope you will feel comfortable enough here to make up for that lack.”
    â€œThat depends.”
    â€œOn?”
    Her chin came up, her eyes met his with resolute purpose. “My role in your household.”
    â€œGuest doesn’t work for you?”
    â€œNot when you are paying me, no.”
    Cristo folded his arms over his chest and regarded hersilently for a moment. It was a pretence. He’d known she would not let this go, that she would insist on taking up some form of paid employment. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s not for me to say when I don’t know your staff arrangements. I’m not even sure of Crash’s position. Is he your butler?”
    â€œButler, cook, valet. He runs the house.”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œPretty much.”
    She drew a strong breath, and her eyes darkened with a new determination. “Then I’m sure he could use help. Perhaps in the kitchen.”
    Cristo’s lips quirked.
    â€œIs that a problem?” she asked, noticing.
    â€œCrash is, shall we say, a little territorial.”
    â€œAbout his kitchen?”
    â€œAbout the whole house.” When questions shadowed her expression, he continued. “Crash oversaw the renovations and the decorating. He lives here. I spend more time away than under this roof.”
    â€œAt your country place?”
    â€œChisholm Park is home, but I don’t spend as much time there as I would like. My life necessitates travel.” He lifted a shoulder, a gesture of acceptance of what his life entailed. “This place is a convenience when I’m in the city, and a business asset. Clients are impressed.”
    â€œI imagine so,” Isabelle said, looking around the room with a new perspective. As impressive as the formal rooms and the guest suites were, she couldn’t place Cristo in them. He was too big, too uncompromisingly male and too comfortable with all that masculinity. This room, however, was different. “You had a hand here,” she mused. “This is you.”
    â€œWell noticed,” he said.
    Just two words, offered with the same insouciance as all that came before, but the flame in his eyes sucked all the air from Isabelle’s lungs. Beyond the door she heard muffled voices, but still she could not look away. She could not breathe. She could not do anything to break the overwhelming intensity of the moment.
    â€œAt some point you must tell me how you reached that conclusion,” he said, his voice as dark and slumberous as his eyes, “and what you see as ‘me.’”
    Before she could think how to answer, a knock sounded at the door. A female voice that wasn’t Francesca’s was raised to a level that would have reached across to the depths of the dressing room. “Cristo, your goon says you are not to be disturbed, but I think he’s having a lend. If you really do have a woman in there, you’d best say so quickly because otherwise I’m coming in.”
    â€œMy sister,” Cristo said smoothly, eyes still fixed on Isabelle’s. “Shall I tell her to go away?”
    Was he serious? Was that wicked message in his eyes for real? Isabelle’s heart did a funny quickstep. Her mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out.
    â€œCristo?” Amanda rapped loudly at the door. “I’m serious. I really do need to talk to you.”
    Cristo’s eyes met hers, the teasing heat now overlaid with regret. “We are going to need an explanation.”
    â€œFor me being