Mistress for a Month

“You want me to stalk her, hit on her and entice her into some pub?”

“But be careful. The last thing we need is more nasty headlines.”

When she hung up, Remy crushed his paper coffee cup and pitched it into the trash. No sooner did it hit the can than he heard the fax in his bedroom. Amelia Weatherbee was not someone he’d ever wanted to see again.

Even her photograph brought painful memories. Holding it to the light, he noted the same youthful wistfulness shining in her eyes. Only now, there was a bit of a lost look in them, too, a sadness, a resignation.

He’d met her only that once. What was it—seventeen years ago? He’d been eighteen, she around thirteen. She’d eavesdropped on a private conversation, and he’d vowed to hate her forever for it even though she’d been kind. Especially because she’d been kind. Dammit! Who was she to pity him?

Funny how that same vulnerability in her eyes and sweet smile seemed enchanting and made him feel protective now.

He’d forced himself to dress and walk over to her flat, where he’d waited outside, reading the Times. When the varnished doors trimmed in polished brass had finally swung open and she’d stepped out into the sunshine, he’d shrunk behind his paper. Bravely armed against the gray sky with her yellow umbrella, she’d looked bright and fresh in her faded cotton dress and scuffed sandals.

He’d been trotting all over the city after Mademoiselle Weatherbee’s yellow umbrella and cute butt ever since. He’d watched her shop at Camden Market and Covent Garden, then Harvey Nicks and last of all Harrods Food Hall. But had she eaten? Hell, no! So he hadn’t eaten, either. Because of her, he was starving and grumpy as hell.

Americans. What sort of barbarian instinct made her skip lunch, a sacred institution to any man with even a drop of French blood?

During the lunch hour she’d gone into a nail shop, where she’d had a pedicure and had gotten tips put on her ragged nails. A decided improvement. Still, she’d skipped lunch.

At the Camden Market, he’d felt like a damn pervert when she’d fingered dozens of bright, silky bras and panties, holding them up to herself as she tried to decide. In the end, she’d surprised him by choosing his favorites—the skimpiest and sheerest of the batch.

Why couldn’t she be the practical-schoolteacher sort who wore sensible cotton panties and bras?

When she’d paid the cashier, she’d suddenly looked up, straight into his eyes. He’d been visualizing her in the red, see-through thong, and her embarrassed glance had set off a frisson of heat inside him. Not good. Fortunately she’d scowled at him and had quickly thrown the tangle of lingerie into a sack and slapped her credit card on top of the mess. After that, he’d kept out of sight.

But she was nearly back to her flat. He had to do something and fast. He’d wasted way too much time already.

She was on Jermyn Street, a mere half block from her building, and he was running out of options when a cab rounded the corner.

Yelling for the taxi, he’d sprinted toward it, deliberately bumping Amelia so hard she stumbled. Her bags tumbled onto the sidewalk, spilling lacy bras and thongs.

All apologies, he dove for the woman, not the silky stuff. He caught her, his long limbs locking around hers at an impossibly intimate angle.

When body parts brushed, she fought a quivery smile and blushed. He felt a heady buzz of his own.

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting go of her instantly.

Those soft hazel eyes with spiky black lashes stared straight into his, and she turned as red as she had when he’d caught her buying the transparent underwear. All of a sudden she seemed almost beautiful.

“You! I saw you before…”

A shock went through him.

Then she said, “At Camden.”

He acted surprised. “Yes, how very strange. Do you live around here, too?”

“No. I’m visiting my sister. She has a flat just…” As if remembering he was a stranger, she stopped and knelt to pick up her bags and the bright bits of sheer lace and silk.

Quickly he knelt and gathered up bras and panties, too, tossing them into her bags but holding on to their handles.

Eyeing his hands on her underwear, she backed away from him a little.

He kept his distance. “If you’d like to have a drink, there’s a pub across the street, or there’s a tea shop around the corner.”

A passerby, a man, gave Remy and the black bra dripping from his right hand a sharp look.

“I’m really awfully tired,” she said.

“All right.” He dropped the lacy underwear into the appropriate bag and then handed her her things.

Her face again burned an adorable shade of red when she looked up at him from beneath those inky lashes, which were as sexy as her butt.

“In that case, I guess it’s goodbye,” he said.

“You’re French.”

“Yes, and alone. Big city. I prefer Paris.” Deliberately he allowed his accent to thicken.

“Of course. I love Paris, too. I’ve been there many times. With my…”

She looked wistful. Was she thinking of Tate? Her quick, sad smile struck a chord inside him. She’d probably loved Tate very much, he thought. His father damn sure had. He himself knew what it was to chase ghosts.

“Are you here on business?”

“Of a sort,” he replied.

“I like your accent. It’s elegant, but not snotty. You know, sometimes French people are so—”

“I like yours, too,” he said before she could insult the French, who were his people, after all, which might cause him to defend them. “You’re American?”

She nodded. “I’m on my way to France on rather a sad errand.”

The light left her beautiful hazel eyes. “A favorite aunt died. I—I used to spend every summer at her château.”

Her château? Like hell. Still, Tate must have been wonderful fun for a young niece, who had no reason to be jealous of her just because the comte had adored her instead of his own son. For all her faults, his outrageous, American stepmother had made his father happy. His own pretentious mother had not.

And he damn sure had not.

Remy’s teeth clenched, but when Amelia continued to stare at him, a stillness descended on him. Her nondescript face with those spiky lashes and naive gaze wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t. But it was growing on him.

Why couldn’t he stop looking at her? Why did he feel so…so…

Aroused was the word he was trying to pluck from the ether.

Abruptly he looked away.

She sucked in a breath. “So, you’re French and I’m going to France,” she said lightly. “How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Yes.”

“We meet in the market. And now here again. Why?”

No way could he admit he’d stalked the hell out of her. “I can’t imagine.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

Fate. Horrible concept. He could tell her a thing or two about fate. Fate had made him the despised bastard of the father he’d adored. Fate had hurled him into André at 160 miles an hour and then into Pierre-Louis.

She was still rattling on as Remy remembered the long months of Pierre-Louis’s hospitalization after the amputation. But at least he’d…

“I mean London is so huge,” she was saying. “What is the chance of that?” When her shining eyes locked with his again, she must have sensed his darkening mood. Spiky lashes batted. “Is something wrong?”

Her soft voice and sympathetic gaze caused a powerful current to pass through his body.

He shook his head.

“Good.” Amelia smiled at him beguilingly. “Then maybe…maybe…I mean, if your offer’s still open, I think I will have that cup of tea, after all, even if we did just meet.”

A cup of tea? As he stared into her hazel eyes he found himself imagining her naked on cream satin sheets. Why was that? She wasn’t his type. He felt off balance, and that wasn’t good.

He should run from this girl and leave the negotiating with her to his agent. He’d had the same cold feeling of premonition right before the crash.

This is it, he’d thought when his steering had jammed and his tires had begun to skid on pavement that had been slicker than glass.

Every time he looked at Amelia pure adrenaline charged through him.

This is it. And there’s no way out, screamed that little voice inside his mind.

Run.

Two

If only she could look at him without feeling all nervous and out of breath, but she couldn’t. So she fidgeted.

He was sleek and edgy and yet he seemed familiar, which was odd because he wasn’t the sort of man a woman with youthful hormones onboard would easily forget.

Curious, intrigued, attracted, Amy couldn’t help studying him when he wasn’t looking. His thickly lashed eyes were brown and flecked with gold. The brows above them were heavy and intimidating. He had the most enormous shoulders and lots of jet-black hair that he wore long enough so that a lock constantly tumbled across his brow.

He was too amazingly gorgeous to believe, and far too male and huge to be sitting across from her in such a ladylike tea shop. But here he was.

Amy bit her lips just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Despite his powerful body, he looked so elegant in his long-sleeved, black silk shirt and beige silk slacks. So grown up and successful compared to Fletcher, who wore old bathing trunks and T-shirts.

“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” she asked, struggling to make the kind of small talk that beautiful, polished Carol would be so good at.

Lame. Did she only imagine that he looked bored?

“No. Why do you ask?” His deep, dark, richly accented voice made her shiver.

“Because I live there. Because lots of tourists come there and I thought…maybe I’d seen you. I mean, you seem so familiar.”

“Do I?” Did she only imagine a new hardness in his voice?

He cocked his head and stared at her so intensely she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

Continuing to gaze at her in that steady, assessing way, his big, tanned hand lifted his wafer-thin teacup to his sensual mouth. She was too conscious of his stern lips, of his chiseled cheekbones, of those amber sparks flashing in his eyes, of his long, tapered fingers caressing the side of the tiny cup.

A beat passed. His eyes scanned the other women in the tea shop before returning to her. She swallowed.

When he grinned, she blushed.

“I—I’m not usually this nervous,” she whispered.

“You don’t seem nervous.” His low tone was smooth. Everything about him was smooth.

When she touched her teacup to lift it, it rattled, sloshing tea. “Oh, God! See? My hand is shaking.”

“Did you skip lunch?”

“How did you…? Why, yes, yes I did! There were so many things to look at in the markets. Sometimes I forget to eat when I shop.”

“I skipped lunch, as well. Maybe we’ll both feel better if we have a scone. They’re very good here.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Never. Until now. With you.”

“Then how do you know they’re good?”

“Reputation. I have a friend who comes here.”

Amy imagined a woman as beautiful as Carol. His friend would be delicate—slim and golden and well-dressed, the type who wouldn’t be caught dead shopping at the Camden Market. His type.

Ignorant of her thoughts and comparison, her companion was slathering clotted cream and jam on his scone. When he finished, he handed the dripping morsel to her. Then he made one for himself. When she gobbled hers much too greedily, he signaled the waitress and ordered chilled finger sandwiches and crisps.

Licking jam and cream off the tips of her fingers, she willed herself to calm down. He was right; she was shaking because she was starving, not because he was gorgeous and sexy and maybe dangerous.

She was perfectly safe. They were in a sedate tea shop with a table and a tablecloth, pink-and-gold china teacups and saucers between them. They were surrounded by lots of other customers, too. So, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

“So, you haven’t been to Hawaii,” she mused aloud, staring at his hard, too-handsome face with that lock of black hair tumbling over his brow. “Are you famous?”

He started.

She bit into a second scone, and the rich concoction seemed to melt on her tongue. “A movie star?” she pressed, sensing a strange, new tension in him as she licked at a sticky fingertip. “Is that why you look so familiar?”

“I’m an investor.” He was watching her lick her finger with such excessive interest, she stopped.

“You don’t look like an investor,” she said.

“What did you have me pegged for?”

“You have a look, an edge. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of man who goes to the office every day.”

Did she only imagine that his mouth tightened? He lowered his eyes and dabbed jam on his second scone. “Sorry to disappoint you. I have a very dull office and a very dull secretary in Paris.”

“So what do you invest in?”

“Lots of dull things—stocks, mutual funds, real estate. My family has interests all over Europe, in the States…Asia, too. Emerging markets, they call them. Believe me, I stay busy with my, er, dull career. I have to, or I’d go mad.” His voice sounded bleak. “And what do you do?”

“I just have a little shop. I sell old clothes that I buy at estate sales and markets.”

“And do you enjoy it?”

“Very much. But it would probably seem dull and boring to someone like you.”

“The question is—is it dull and boring to you?”

“No! Of course, not! I love what I do. I live to find some darling item at a bargain price, so that I can sell it to a customer with a limited budget. Every woman longs to be beautiful, you know.”

“Then I envy you.” Again she heard a weariness in his voice. Only this time she sensed the deeper pain that lay beneath it.

“And you don’t think I’m boring…because I sell old clothes?”

He laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“No, really, you must tell me.” She leaned forward, holding her cup in two hands for fear of spilling. “Since we’re strangers, we can speak freely. Was your first impression of me…Did you think I looked boring and old?”

He set his scone down. “Who the hell’s been telling you a stupid thing like that?”

“My boyfriend.” Why had she admitted that?

“Then dump him.”

“I sort of did, but I’ve always loved him. Or, at least, I thought I did. Maybe he’s just been in my life forever.”

“So you’re the loyal, committed type?”

“Well, anyway, I can’t stop thinking about him. All day I thought about him. And the things he said.”

His black brows shot together so alarmingly her hands, which still held her teacup, began to shake. “Stick with your decision.”

“But I’ve loved him since I was five, I think,” she whispered a bit defensively. “My mother disapproves of him, though.”

“No wonder you cling to him.”

“No, it’s not like that.” She smiled. “It’s just that I’m not sure I did the right thing to break up with him. I did it so fast, I mean. That’s not like me. I spent several years planning before I opened my store.”

“Maybe the decision had been coming on for a while.”

“But Fletcher—”

“Fletcher?” His handsome features hardened. “Well, you’re not boring or old. So, you want to know my first thoughts about you. I thought you were lovely. Fresh. Nice. Different. Too nice for me probably, but a woman I definitely would want to know better if I were a different sort of man—one capable of commitment. Sexy.” He bit off that last rather grumpily. “Sexy in a nice way. You’re the kind of woman a nice guy, who has a good job and wants to settle down, marries so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekends.”

His dark eyes with those sparking flecks said much more, and she grew hot with embarrassment.

“That’s sweet,” she said.

When his hand reached across the table for hers, she jumped.

“Responsive, too. That’s another first thought.”

She yanked her hand free and tucked it beneath her pink napkin.

“This Fletcher doesn’t deserve you. But let’s talk of something more pleasant. I can tell we’ll never agree on this subject, so why argue? Your love life is your choice. Not mine. I barely know you.”

He seemed out of sorts suddenly, defensive, almost jealous. But that wasn’t possible. A man like him, who was wealthy, refined and movie-star sexy couldn’t be jealous of her. Especially not when they’d just met.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“So, you have a sister?” He was clearly determined to change the subject. “Here in London?

“Carol. Actually, she lives outside London. On a rather grand estate near Wolverton. She has a large house with a conservatory. And a lovely garden, too. That sounds so English, doesn’t it? But she and her husband—he’s a lord and a very important person, mind you—keep a flat here in St. James so they can stay in the city whenever they need to, which is usually four or five nights a week. She’s a barrister, and he’s high up in the government. They both work in the city.”

“So how much time do you have with them? What sights are you going to see while you’re here?”

“I’m flying to Marseilles tomorrow afternoon. But I hope to ride the Eye and walk across the Millennium Bridge. I’m sure those seem like dull and boring things to you.”

“Quit running yourself down. We’ll do it, then,” he said.

“We’ll?”

“If you’ll accept my invitation. Are you free for dinner and dancing tonight?”

“But we just met. I bet I’m not the sort of girl you usually ask out.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Just what I said. I’m not the sort of girl you usually hang out with.”

“No, you’re not. But maybe that’s why I like you so much. Why I find you so not boring and old, as you put it, that I want to clear my schedule, which is jam-packed I assure you, and spend as much time as I can with you before you leave.”

She was thrilled and yet startled, too. She was in a foreign city, and she didn’t know anything about him. Except that he was sexy, and she wasn’t sure that was exactly the best recommendation.

“I’ll have to check with my sister. She went to Edinburgh on business, but she’s going to try to get back tonight in time to have me come for dinner. I came over here in such a rush, and she had a calendar full of engagements and business commitments.”

“I understand.” He pulled out a little black notebook and tore out a page. Then he scribbled two numbers. “This one’s my mobile. The other rings at the flat. Call me if you’re free.” Then he shrugged in that wonderful Gallic way he had as he handed it to her.

His deep voice was as heated as his gaze, causing her to shiver even before he placed the note in her hand. Instantly she curled her fingers around the scrap of paper. When his fingers lingered warmly over hers for long seconds, her own hand froze.

Soon the heat of his long fingers wrapping hers proved too unnerving. She couldn’t think or talk or breathe. Not with her pulse knocking a hundred beats a minute.

“Why do you seem so familiar?” she blurted, pulling her hand away so she could put his note in her purse. She gasped for a breath. “I—I just know I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t think so.”

With a scowl, he picked up the bill. Then before she knew what he was about, he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, turning it over slowly. His mouth against her palm and wrist sent her pulse leaping even faster than before. Then heat swept her body.

“I don’t need to call you later. I’ll go with you…dancing…everything…tonight,” she said in a rush.

“What about Carol?”

“Carol?” Her mind was blank.

“Your sister.” He smiled much too knowingly.

“Right.” She gasped. “Right. Of course. Carol. I’ve got to wait until Carol calls. I forgot all about her.”

He laughed. “You’re wonderful in your own special way. I envy that nice guy with the job who’s going to get you. Lucky man.”

When he got up, he helped her out of her chair. After he paid the bill, he escorted her out of the shop and said he hoped he’d see her soon. On the sidewalk he lifted her hand to his mouth and said goodbye before walking rapidly toward Piccadilly.

Amelia looked at the little scrap of paper with his phone numbers on it. He hadn’t written his name down, nor had he introduced himself properly. He hadn’t asked her for her name, either.

Why?

He had impeccable manners.

Was he famous?

Why did he seem so familiar?

France’s Highest Court Upholds Dismissal of Manslaughter Charges against Comte Remy de Fournier!

Her mouth agape, riveted by the news headlines, lurid photographs and articles in the newspaper she was holding, Amelia sat perfectly still on Carol’s “bloody-expensive” sofa.

Remy de Fournier. No wonder he’d seemed so edgy. No wonder he hadn’t told her who he was.

He’d killed his best friend, André Laffite, because he’d driven on bad tires on a wet day to win. Since the wreck, he’d slept with every beautiful woman with a title on the continent, heartlessly jilting them, not caring if he broke their hearts as long as they pleasured him.

So, they hadn’t met quite by accident.

She took a deep breath against the hurt that threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn’t attracted to her. He’d been feeling her out, figuring out a strategy to get the valuable properties he coveted.

Beneath the blaring headline were pictures of the crash that had ended the life of his best friend. Apparently Remy had been determined to win at any cost. More photographs of the wreck were splashed across a back page. There were numerous shots of Remy and the beautiful women he’d dated and jilted. One of the women had even made a suicide attempt after her affair with him. Not that the woman herself blamed Remy. No, she said he’d helped her through a difficult time. There was an awful picture of him smashing his fist into a reporter’s jaw.

When she finished reading the articles and looking at the pictures, Amy felt sick. She reexamined them, anyway. When she was done, she shot to her feet and began to pace with the newspaper clutched to her heart. If half the accusations were true, she should despise him. Wadding the paper up, she threw the pages at the wall and then flung herself back down on Carol’s sofa.

Bastard. Liar. Jerk.

A memory came back to her. Remy had been eighteen, and she’d been in the garden when the comte had hurled brutal, damning insults at him. Never would she forget the torment in Remy’s eyes when he’d stormed out of the château and straight into her.

“What the hell were you doing?” he’d thundered. “Spying?”

“But I wasn’t.”

“Damn little eavesdropper! Get out of my way!”

“No. I—I wasn’t. I swear.”

“Liar.”

“No. I—I’m sorry about what he said. Maybe he didn’t mean it.”

“Spare me your fake kindness. He meant it, all right. I hope I never have the bad fortune to meet you or your aunt again.” He slammed past her and out the gate and she hadn’t seen him for seventeen years. Till today.

And now? Outwardly he was much changed from the tall, awkward, angry boy who’d been so rude to her.

Fool. He’d been deliberately charming because he wanted the vineyard and the painting.

Still, he’d gone out of his way to make her like him. Even now when she should be furious because he’d deceived her so he could use her or so his agents could trick her, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He is loathsome. So much worse than Fletcher.

But that woman who’d tried to kill herself had defended him.

Why did the bad boys of the world always appeal to her? Why couldn’t she fall for some nice, paunchy accountant going bald, someone like Carol’s Steve, an upright, type-A achiever? Or even just the normal guy Remy had described: the nice guy with a job who wants to settle down and marry so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekend.