The Millionaire's Mistress

A virgin! He could still not believe it. Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN Copyright

A virgin! He could still not believe it.

How could a girl looking like her, responding as she did to a man’s touch, reach almost twenty-two without having intimately known a male body?

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The Millionaire’s Mistress

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

HE WATCHED her from the safety of distance, annoyed with himself for watching her at all.

She was cavorting in the pool with a group of young bucks, revelling in their admiration, flirting outrageously with all of them.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her any more than they could, his narrowed gaze captivated by that long tawny blonde hair, those flashing blue eyes and that lushly laughing mouth.

The laughter died on her lips when one of the young men playfully pulled her under the water. She came up spluttering, struggling to push the mass of thick wet hair out of her face. Whirling away from her admirers, she swam with petulant strokes over to the ladder, where she hauled herself upwards, her nose in the air, water cascading from her curves—her perfectly proportioned, glisteningly gorgeous curves.

Once out of the pool, she flipped her hair over and slowly wrung it out like a towel, bending forward as she did so, her breasts almost spilling out of her bikini top, which was slightly askew.

He cursed as he felt his flesh automatically respond. She was everything he desired—and despised. A high-spirited, high-class rich bitch, with beauty to burn, a body to die for, and a soul undoubtedly as spoilt and selfish as sin.

He didn’t know her name. He didn’t need to. It would be something like Tiffany, or Felicity. Maybe Jacqueline. Perhaps even another Stephany.

Her name didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. What mattered was that he wasn’t yet immune to her type.

God, would he never learn?

His sigh was weary. He should not have come. This sort of empty partying was not for him. He’d grown past it. He wanted more these days. And he wouldn’t find more here.

Putting his drink down on a nearby table, he turned from the window and went in search of his host.

‘But the night’s still young!’ Felix exclaimed when his esteemed guest said his goodbyes.

‘Sorry,’ he returned. ‘It’s been a long week.’

‘You work too hard at that bank of yours.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘You should learn to relax more, Marcus,’ came the unwelcome advice. ‘Why not stay a little while longer? Have another drink and I’ll introduce you to the Montgomery girl.’

“The Montgomery girl?’

‘Justine Montgomery. I saw you watching her a moment ago. Not that I blame you. She’s a peach. Ripe and ready for the picking.’

Justine...

Yes, that suited. It had a snooty air to it, just like its owner. As for her being ripe and ready for the picking... Marcus only just managed to suppress a cynical laugh. He had no illusions about the Justine Montgomerys of this world. The odds were she’d been picked from the tree many years before. Picked and handled and devoured in every way possible.

He’d met plenty of Justines over the past ten years or so. He’d even married one.

A small shudder ran through him at the memory.

‘I don’t think so, Felix. Girls like Miss Montgomery are best admired from a distance.’

‘Don’t let your marriage to Stephany sour you. Not all women are as fickle or as faithless as her.’

‘Thank God for that. Though I would hardly categorise Miss Montgomery as a woman. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-one.’

‘That’s because she isn’t. But so what if she’s young? Stephany was only twenty-one when you married her, wasn’t she?’

‘Exactly,’ came his dry reply.

‘You don’t have to marry the girl, you know.’

‘Oh, yes, I know that. Only too well.’

‘That’s not what I meant. Don’t judge the daughter by the father. Grayson Montgomery might be amoral, but Justine’s a very sweet girl.’

Marcus’ laughter was cold and hard. ‘Too sweet for me, I think. I like my peaches a little less...er... ripe. Still, if I ever run into Miss Montgomery again, I’ll remember your recommendation. Now, I really must go. I have a board meeting first thing tomorrow morning.’

Justine parked her silver Nissan 200SX Sports in the double garage, and zapped the roll-down door shut behind her. Her father’s car space was empty and she frowned. Where on earth could he be at midnight on a Sunday night?

A Saturday night would have been different. He played poker with his racing buddies most Saturday nights, to all hours of the morning. It was not unknown for him to stay out all night, going straight to his Sunday golf game without returning home.

But Sunday evening he usually reserved for his wife. Still frowning, Justine scooped up her carryall from the passenger seat and ran up the back stairs to the first floor of the house—and the bedrooms. Seeing the light on under her mother’s door, she stopped and knocked softly.

‘Mum? Are you awake?’

‘Yes, darling. Come on in.’

Adelaide Montgomery was perched up in bed against a mountain of pillows, a blockbuster novel in one hand and a half-eaten chocolate in the other. At fifty-seven, Justine’s mother was still a very attractive lady, meticulous with her hair and face. But her once hourglass figure had succumbed to more than middle-age spread over the past few years or so. She was always bemoaning her increased weight, blaming it on everything from early menopause to hormone replacement therapy.

‘Mum, you naughty lady,’ Justine reproached when she saw the large box of chocolates beside the bed. ‘You’re supposed to be starting a diet this week.’

‘And so I am, darling. Tomorrow.’

‘Daddy not home yet?’ Justine asked, levering herself up onto the end of her parents’ huge four-poster bed.

‘No, he’s not. And I’m going to have a word with him when he does come too. When he rang to let me know he wouldn’t be home for dinner, he could have indicated he might be this late. Just as well I’m not a worrier.’

Which she wasn’t, Justine conceded. Her mother never worried about anything because she never took responsibility for anything. Grayson Montgomery was the head of the Montgomery family in every way. He ran the household, hired and fired staff, made all the decisions and paid all the bills. Neither mother nor daughter knew much about his business dealings, other than the fact he ran a high-powered financial consultancy and worked very long hours.

A handsome and charismatic man, Grayson spoilt his wife and daughter shamelessly in material things, but, in truth, didn’t spend much time with either of them. Never had.

Justine sometimes wondered what sort of relationship her older brother would have had with his father—had he lived. But Adelaide Montgomery’s firstborn hadn’t lived. Her beloved little Lome had died, a cot death when he was only ten months old. From what Justine still gathered from family whispers, her mother had had a breakdown over her son’s death, and vowed never to have another baby.

When Justine arrived, nearly ten years later, Adelaide had by then perfected her ‘non-worrying’ mode, and became a splendidly indulgent, rather scatty-headed mother. Justine had been allowed to run wild; the very opposite to the normal smothering reaction to a previous cot death in a family.

This lack of mothering, on top of her father’s many absences, meant Justine had grown up with a serious lack of discipline. She’d brilliantly failed most of her exams at school, despite her reports saying she was exceptionally bright. This she had proved, by putting her head down during the last six months of her final year of school—a male classmate had raised her hackles by calling her a blonde bimbo one day—and achieving a surprisingly acceptable pass. Enough to get her onto a degree course at the university not far from where the Montgomerys lived at Lindfield.

She had already spent a delightful three years on the college campus, joining every club it had, partying and having the most fantastic fun. Unfortunately, her frantic social life had resulted in her failing her exams again. In fact, she’d failed her first year two years in a row. At the beginning of this year, when she’d tried to sign up to repeat the first year of her degree course yet again, the dean had suggested she might like to try some other subject. She couldn’t think what, and had wangled her way back for a third try, her dazzling smile achieving the dean’s agreement with remarkable ease.

Thankfully, she hadn’t let him down, and was confident she had sailed through this time. She’d happily finished her last exam this week and was looking forward to moving on to her second year at long last.

‘How did you enjoy the party, darling?’ her mother asked vaguely as she munched into another chocolate, then turned the page of her book.

‘Oh, it was all right, I guess. The same old crowd. Just as well I went in my own car, though, and didn’t let Howard pick me up like he wanted to. Truly, he’s getting to be a real pain. Just because I’ve been out with him a couple of times, he thinks he owns me. I was having a perfectly nice time in the pool when he came up behind me, pulled me under the water and tried to take my top off. I was furious, I can tell you. I can’t stand being manhandled like that. The way he was carrying on, anyone would think we were sleeping together.’

Adelaide blinked up from her book. ‘What was that, dear? Did you say you were sleeping with someone?’

Justine sighed. She could say she was sleeping with the entire male faculty at the university and her mother would not react normally. Truly, one day something would happen that would shock her out of the fog she lived in.

‘No, Mum. I said I wasn’t sleeping with Howard. Howard Barthgate,’ she added, when her mother looked vague for a moment.

‘Ah, yes. The Barthgate boy. And you’re not sleeping with him? That does surprise me, I admit. Such a good-looking boy. But that’s the way to really catch them, darling. Don’t sleep with them. You couldn’t do better, you know. His father has squillions, and Howard’s his only son.’

‘Mum, I am not going to marry Howard Barthgate!’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because he’s an arrogant, snotty little creep.’

‘Is he? I thought he was quite tall when I met him. Oh, well...whatever you think best, dear. Someone else will come along. A girl like you will always have men trailing after her.’

‘What do you mean? A girl like me?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Adelaide said airily. ‘Rich. Single. Sexy.’

Justine was surprised by this last adjective. Most mothers would have said pretty, or lovely, or beautiful. Justine was not stupid. She saw herself in the mirror every day and she knew she was a good-looking girl.

But sexy? Now she’d never thought of herself as that, mostly because she wasn’t all that interested in sex. Never had been really. While all her girlfriends’ hormones had been raging for years, she’d sailed along with myriads of boyfriends and dates, but nothing beyond the kissing and minor groping stages.

Actually, it was her aversion to even minor groping which stopped her from allowing more. She hated all that heavy breathing stuff. The thought of hot fumbling fingers pawing at her breasts, or a wet sloppy mouth slobbering all over her gave her the heebie-jeebies.

Justine always made it quite clear on the first date that if the boy thought she was going to come across at the end of the night, he could find himself someone else to take out. She had no intention of giving a man sex just because he bought her dinner, or took her to a movie. Only true love, she reasoned loftily, would make such an intimate and yukky act bearable.

Despite this highly unique stance for a nineties girl, Justine still had a great social life, never lacking in invitations or escorts. Her life was full of fun, without complication, without the emotional traumas which seemed to come with a sexual relationship. All her girlfriends told her tales of woe about their various boyfriends and lovers.

Frankly, Justine thought sex was more trouble than it was worth.

Of course, there was an irritating faction within her female friends who thought differently on the subject. Trudy, who lived two streets away from Justine and who’d been her best friend for yonks, was simply mad about men and sex. Only last week she’d assured Justine that one day some hunky guy would come along and sweep her off her feet and into bed before she could blink an eye.

Justine had scoffed at such an unlikely scenario. He’d have to be a man in a million, that was for sure, with a darn lot of sex appeal and know-how. Nothing at all like Howard Barthgate. Dear heaven, she wouldn’t be going out with the likes of him again!

Dismissing Howard from her mind with her usual slightly ruthless speed, Justine jumped up from her mother’s bed. ‘I think I’ll go make myself some hot chocolate. Want some?’

‘No, thank you, darling. Hot chocolate’s very fattening,’ her mother said with all seriousness as she popped another milk crème into her mouth.

Justine kept a straight face with difficulty as she left the room. Truly, the woman was incorrigible. But she was such a dear, with not a mean bone in her body. Justine would not have had her any other way. It was quite wonderful to have a mother who loved you to death but who didn’t interfere. Justine liked running her own show. She liked it very much.

Her smile was full of indulgent affection as she skipped down the sweeping central staircase, sliding her hand down the carved mahogany banister on the way and thinking of all the times she’d slid more than her hand down that perfectly polished and thankfully sturdy construction. What a wonderfully carefree and punishment-free childhood she had had! Some people called her spoilt and wilful, but Justine didn’t see it that way. She thought she was the luckiest girl in Sydney, and maybe even Australia!

The front doorbell rang just as she jumped off the bottom step into the marble-tiled foyer. She stood there for a moment, startled. Who on earth could be calling at this time of night?

A strange chill invaded Justine as she made her way with uncharacteristic hesitation towards the door.

‘Who is it?’ she asked through the door, a burst of nerves making her voice sharp.

‘The police, ma’am.’

The police! Oh, my God...

She shot back the door chain and wrenched open the door, paling at the sight of the two uniformed officers standing on the front porch. Their serious faces betrayed that their mission was not a pleasant one.

‘Mrs Montgomery?’ the older officer queried with a frown.

‘No. Mum’s upstairs in bed. I’m Justine Montgomery, her daughter. What is it? Has something happened to my father?’

When Justine saw their exchanged glances her head began to swim.

Pull yourself together, she ordered herself. Mum is going to need you.

‘He...he’s dead, isn’t he?’ she blurted out, a silent scream in her head.

The officer nodded sadly. ‘I’m truly sorry, miss.’

‘I...I suppose it was a car accident,’ she choked out, thinking how often she’d chided her father for driving too fast.

The two police officers exchanged another, more meaningful glance, and Justine stiffened.

‘Er...no, miss. Not a car accident. I’m sorry. I really think that—’

‘Tell me, for pity’s sake!’ she interrupted. ‘I need to know the truth!’

The older officer sighed. ‘Your father had a fatal coronary in a Kings Cross club where gentlemen go to be...er...entertained.’

Justine rocked back, gripping the front door for support, her eyes wide upon the bearer of this almost unbelievable news.

‘Let me get this straight, Sergeant,’ she said slowly, her mouth parched. ‘Are you saying my father died in a brothel?’

He looked painfully embarrassed and reluctant to repeat his news. ‘Um...yes, miss,’ he finally admitted. ‘That’s what I’m saying. Look, I realise this has come as a shock. Unfortunately, there—’

‘Who’s that at the door, darling?’

The policemen broke off. Justine whirled round.

Adelaide Montgomery was coming down the stairs, sashing her dressing-gown, a frown on her plumply pretty face. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked worriedly in her little-girl voice.

Justine watched her mother blanch at the sight of the two policemen at the front door, watched as Adelaide’s eyes filled with panic and fear. She clutched at the neckline of her robe with both hands as she swayed on unsteady feet. ‘Oh, dear God, no! Not Grayson...’

Justine hurried to hold her mother before she fainted, knowing that their lives would never be the same again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘A BOARDING house!’ her mother exclaimed in horror. ‘You want to turn my home into a boarding house? Oh, no, no, no. That would never do, Justine. It’s out of the question. Goodness, whatever will my friends think?’

‘Who cares what they think?’ came Justine’s frustrated reply. ‘Most of them are just fair-weather friends anyway. How many phone calls or visits have you had from your so-called friends lately?’ Justine asked her mother. ‘How many invitations? They all came to the funeral, mouthing platitudes of sympathy and support, but as soon as they found out all our money was gone, they dropped us like hot-cakes. It’s as though we’ve suddenly got a brand on our foreheads. Poor, it says. To be given a wide berth.’

‘Oh, Justine, you’re imagining things. Why, only yesterday I received an invitation in the mail from Ivy, inviting us both to Felix’s fiftieth birthday party this coming Saturday evening.’

Justine refrained from pointing out that that was probably Trudy’s doing, Ivy being Trudy’s mother. The invitation had been suspiciously late. Yesterday was Wednesday, after all. No doubt Trudy had made a fuss when she’d found out Justine and her mother were not on the guest list for her father’s party and insisted her mother ask them.

Justine didn’t like Ivy Turrell one bit. She was an awful snob. Her husband wasn’t much better. Felix had made a fortune selling insurance, and only invited people to his home who could be of benefit to him. Naturally, there’d been a time when the well-to-do Montgomerys had always been on the Turrells’ guest-list. Not so for much longer, Justine thought ruefully.

‘People are giving us a little time to get over our grief,’ her mother went on, seeing through her usual rose-coloured glasses. ‘We’re not really poor, and it’s only been two months since your father...since he...he...’ She slumped down on the side of her unmade bed, her hands twisting together in her lap. ‘Since the funeral,’ she finished in a strangled tone.

Justine sat down beside her, sliding a comforting arm around her sagging shoulders.

‘Mum, we have to face facts. We are poor, compared to the people we’ve been mixing with. Okay, so technically you still own this house and its contents. But we have no income any more. And Daddy died owing nearly half a million dollars.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ her mother wailed.

‘Where did all the money go? I inherited a considerable amount from my parents when they passed away. It all came to me. I was their only child.’

‘Daddy spent it all, Mum. And in a way, so did we. Neither of us ever asked where he got the money for our generous allowances, did we? We never budgeted, never went out to work ourselves, never questioned our lifestyles of sheer luxury. We just accepted all this as our due,’ she finished, waving around at the opulent bedroom, with its silk furnishings and antique furniture.

‘But Grayson never liked my asking him questions,’ came the tremulous excuse.

Justine patted her mother’s hands. ‘I know, Mum. I know.’

‘He...he used to get angry if I asked him questions.’

Bastard, Justine thought bitterly.

She’d once loved and admired her father, but not any more. She knew the real man now, not the smiling sugar-daddy who’d obviously thought being a husband and father was covered by keeping his wife and daughter’s bank accounts topped up. The truth was he’d shamefully neglected his family, relying on his empty charm to keep sweet the women in his life.

Justine was forced to accept now that her father had married her mother for money, never love. Grayson Montgomery’s greed had been as prodigious as his lust. One of the worst rumours she’d heard since his death was that he’d taken advantage of several elderly and very wealthy widows who’d consulted him about investments, worming his way into their affections and becoming a beneficiary in their wills—money which he’d subsequently frittered away.

Justine didn’t doubt any of it. She only had to look at their own dire financial situation to know the truth about the man. Over the last few years, her father had cashed in every viable asset to bankroll his increasingly expensive lifestyle. His rampant gambling plus regular visits to high-class call girls had cost quite a bit. He’d died with no life insurance, a considerable overdraft and a massive personal loan on which the family home had been offered as security. His Jaguar had since been repossessed, as had her mother’s Astra. Only her own Nissan was unencumbered. But even that would have to go. Justine would have to trade it in next week, for a cheaper, smaller model.

‘We really don’t have any money?’ her mother asked tearfully.

‘None, I’m afraid,’ she confessed. ‘Daddy’s bank is also threatening to sell the house so they can recoup their losses. They will, too.’

Her mother’s eyes flooded with tears and her shoulders began to shake. ‘But this is my home. My father bought it when he married my mother sixty years ago. I was born here. Brought up here. All my memories are here. I...I couldn’t bear to lose this as well.’

Justine could see that. It had been her home as well, since her grandparents had passed away. She didn’t want to sell the house, but someone had to be practical; someone had to face reality and do something to make ends meet!

Like her mother, Justine had spent her entire life not having to worry about a thing, and it hadn’t been easy for her since her father’s death. But oddly enough, in adversity Justine had found hidden strengths of character she hadn’t realised she possessed. One was a determination not to succumb to self-pity.

‘Which is why I’m trying to save it,’ she pointed out firmly to her mother. ‘The boarding house idea is the only solution. Even so, we’re going to have to auction off some of the contents to reduce the loan. I thought I’d start with the things Grandma left me in her will. They’re quite valuable, you know.’

Up till today, Justine’s mother had simply refused to face what her husband had done, both in life and in death. She’d gone along blithely pretending that everything would come out right in the end if she buried her head in the sand long enough.