Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress by Bronwyn Jameson Page A

here?”
    â€œFor you being here in my bedroom, yes, but more importantly, for you and Francesca being here in my house.”

Seven
    A manda burst through the door in a flurry of righteous indignation. She punched Cristo’s arm, then she hugged him, all the while admonishing him for not opening the door, for not answering any of her messages over the past week and finally for disappearing to Australia without any explanation.
    Cristo, Isabelle noticed, did not attempt to get a word in. He pretended to wince at the puny punch, and he hugged her back with what looked like genuine affection and a large dose of forbearance that Isabelle thought was largely for show. They made quite a picture—he a big cat, all golden-skinned power, his sister a kittenish beauty with a sleek brunette bob and porcelain-pale skin.
    Without drawing breath, Amanda launched from general complaints into a specific and passionate tirade about unapproved changes to the menu for her wedding breakfast. At her indignant “Harry despises shellfish. I told the planner—shedoesn’t listen,” Isabelle’s stomach twisted. She hated high melodrama—that had been her mother’s specialty; it still tied her in knots of anxiety—but after a minute of observing Amanda she knew Hugh’s return and Chessie’s revelations would not be received with calm, levelheaded stoicism.
    Feeling like an intruder on a private family moment, she’d slunk back out of view, wanting nothing more than to blend into the furniture. This wasn’t impossible; it was a skill she’d learned early in life that held her in good stead in her work.
    But now she longed for true invisibility because Cristo was turning his still-fuming sister beneath his arm, his intent clear. Isabelle’s eyes widened with a no, please don’t! appeal. Which he, dammit, spoke right over.
    â€œTake a breath before you hyperventilate,” he told his sister. “And after you’ve done that, you might say hello to Isabelle.”
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry,” Amanda said. Her pansy-dark eyes took in Isabelle with undisguised curiosity. “I didn’t even notice you there. You must think I’m completely self-absorbed.”
    â€œYou are,” Cristo murmured.
    â€œI know,” she agreed blithely. Her smile for Isabelle held genuine warmth and a complete lack of repentance. “This wedding has turned me into an utter bridezilla. I can’t wait until it’s all over and I’m myself again. Or myself under the new name of Mrs. Hugh Harrington,” she added.
    Isabelle’s heart sunk. Her eyes sought Cristo’s for help, for guidance, for anything to stop this conversation descending into complete hell. He obliged by releasing his sister and reaching for Isabelle’s hand. He drew her close to his side and shocked her all the way to her toes by pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
    â€œIsabelle is the reason I flew to the other side of the world,” he continued, his voice dropping to a level that made all herfemale bits tingle, even while her sensible, logical self shrieked an objection.
    Cristo squeezed her hand in warning, and she pressed her lips shut.
    Amanda had not missed a thing. Her inquisitive eyes shifted from Isabelle to Cristo. “My, my, big brother, you are full of surprises.”
    What could she say? The biggest surprise is still to come? She’s here in this house and pregnant with your lying, cheating fiancé’s baby?
    What if they bumped into each other, right now, on the stairs? With both Amanda and Chessie oblivious. Sick with the thought of that confrontation, she sent a beseeching look up at Cristo.
    â€œCrash has got it,” he said casually, but there was reassurance in his expression and in the strength of his hand holding hers. Crash must have been prewarned about keeping Chessie out of the way. Isabelle did not have a problem with that. Subtly she