Out of Hours...Boardroom Seductions: One-Night Mistress...Convenient Wife / Innocent in the Italian's Possession / Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

Hoist on her own petard.

“For a week, Nat. That’s all. I’ll pay you.”

Her jaw snapped shut. “You will not pay me!”

“Well, it’s business. But, fine. I won’t. I just…please. You’ll make an old—”

“If you say, I’ll make an old woman happy, I’ll stuff a sock down your throat!”

A corner of his mouth twitched. But he shrugged. “Okay, I won’t say it. How about, you’ll make me happy?”

“Oh, and I desperately want to make you happy, don’t I?” she retorted sarcastically.

He didn’t answer, just waited her out. And there wasn’t enough time in the world for her to muster enough common sense and self-preservation to say no.

She drew a sharp breath, knowing herself to be a fool. Nothing had changed after all. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll do it. But only because Sophy keeps telling me to take a vacation.”

“We leave on Tuesday.” Christo grinned, triumphant. But in his eyes Natalie could still see the haunted, worried look beneath it.

He gave her a ring.

They were standing at the airport, waiting to board the plane and all of a sudden he fished in his pocket and took out a small black velvet box.

Natalie stared at it as if it were a rattler about to strike. “What’s that?” she demanded, sure it was exactly what she hoped it was not.

Christo flipped open the box. It was. A perfect diamond solitaire. Very spare and elegant. Not a rock, but not minuscule either. Exactly the sort of ring Christo would give a woman he was going to marry—if Christo were going to marry anyone. Which he wasn’t.

“You said we weren’t going to lie!”

“It’s not a lie.”

“What? It’s a prop?”

He shrugged. “If you will, yes.” He looked exasperated. “Look. Just wear it, will you? Consider it part of the uniform.”

He held it out to put on her finger, and she scowled, but finally stuck her hand out. “It probably won’t fit anyway,” she muttered. She had big hands, not the delicate ones men always seemed to expect.

“It will,” Christo said confidently.

And damn it, he was right. It slid on and fit perfectly. Natalie stared at the ring glittering on her finger and felt a sinking desperation somewhere deep inside. She started to tremble.

“How did you—?” she began, but couldn’t even finish.

“I asked your mother your ring size.”

Her gaze jerked up and she stared at him, horrified. “You asked my mother? What size ring I wear? Are you crazy? What on earth will she think?” Oh, God. It didn’t even bear thinking about!

“What will she think? The truth. She asked, and I told her the truth.”

“That you were hiring me to be your…fiancée?”

He shrugged. “She knows about my grandmother. She’s met her. She understood.”

She did? And what had she thought about Natalie being his choice for fake fiancée? Had she wondered why? If so, she hadn’t asked.

She hadn’t called her daughter, either, though Natalie couldn’t quite imagine her mother being as sanguine as Christo thought she was. But then, she had to have known since at least yesterday for him to have bought a ring. And Laura hadn’t called and tried to talk her out of it.

Was her mother expecting something to come of it? Dear God, what a mess.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Natalie said with quiet certainty.

“No, it won’t,” Christo said. “It will be fine. It has to be fine,” he added fiercely.

The line was moving now. They were edging toward the plane, and as they moved, Natalie twisted the ring on her finger and was excruciatingly aware of Christo’s hand lightly touching her back.

It was easy to spot Lucia Azevedo when they’d reached the baggage-claim area. She was the small, birdlike woman whose pale face simply lit up at the sight of Christo. She crossed the space that separated them in seconds and wrapped Christo in a fierce hug, then stepped back to regard Natalie with an intent gaze.

“So you are my Christo’s lady?” Her voice was a bit reserved as she offered her hand, which Natalie took. Her fingers were thin and bony, but warm, and Natalie felt determined strength in them as they pressed hers.

“I’m so happy to meet you, Senhora Azevedo,” Natalie said, and though she felt a twinge of guilt at the way she was doing it, she meant every word. Ever since she’d heard the stories Christo had told Jamii, she had wanted to meet this woman who meant so much to him.

“Call me Lucia,” his grandmother said.

“Lucia,” Natalie repeated dutifully. “Thank you for inviting me. And thank you, Senhor Azevedo,” she said to the man who stood fidgeting in the background.

He had stayed back until his mother had finished greeting Christo and Natalie, as if he knew who really mattered to Christo. But now he embraced his son and clapped him on the back, then kissed Natalie on both cheeks.

“Xanti,” he corrected her. “Senhor Azevedo makes me sound like my father. Dead.”

“Beloved,” his mother corrected firmly, slapping his arm lightly. “And deeply missed.”

“Sim. And not replaceable. So I am Xanti,” her son said just as firmly, taking her hand in his.

Xantiago Azevedo was in his mid fifties now, but unlike many men his age he had retained the lithe, lean, soccer player’s build he must have had in his prime. He wasn’t as broad-shouldered as Christo, nor as handsome in Natalie’s estimation, but she could see instantly that Xanti’s quicksilver grin would always have appealed to the ladies. And there was a twinkle in his green eyes, which were much more devilish than his serious son’s.

“Where’s Katia?” Christo asked his father now.

Katia was the bride. But more than that Natalie hadn’t discovered.

“I’ve met her once or twice,” Christo had said. “She’s young. Beautiful. The sort Xanti always goes for. Not much older than me.” There was a mixture of doubt and censure in his tone. He looked around now, but apparently didn’t see her. He looked quizzically at his father.

Xanti laughed and shrugged. “Running around like a chicken,” he said, shaking his head as he hoisted one of the suitcases Christo had taken off the luggage turntable and led the way out the door. “She has so much to do before the wedding. Me, I don’t know what is so important.”

“I know,” his mother said imperiously. “The wedding is important. She wants it to be perfect.”

Christo rolled his eyes at that comment, but fortunately his grandmother didn’t see him. She was focused on walking as they went out of the terminal. Her gait was slow and not terribly steady. Natalie slowed her pace to match and offered Christo’s grandmother her arm for support.

“Maybe your father could bring the car and meet your grandmother and me here?” she called to Christo who, laden with two more suitcases, had been going after his father.

He glanced back, realized at once what she meant, and called something to his father in Portuguese. Then he immediately turned back and helped Natalie usher his grandmother to a bench.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he scolded her. “You should have stayed home to rest.”

She looked indignant as she sank onto the seat. “For what do I rest? For you. You are here at last. Who knows how many days I have to see you?”

“Don’t say things like that,” Christo chastised her roughly.

His grandmother shrugged. “It is true.” And she looked up at him with such love that it was almost painful to watch—especially since Natalie had a very good idea how she felt.

It took over an hour to get to the house that Xanti had built for his mother after he’d become an international soccer star. It was in the same rural area he had grown up in, with a mixture of working farms and large estates. And when they arrived, Natalie realized that it wasn’t simply a house, but a small compound of two good-sized houses and several smaller cottages.

“Because Xanti wanted home-cooked meals, but he didn’t want Avó telling him not to bring his women home,” Christo explained wryly after they’d taken his grandmother to her house and she’d been persuaded to take a short rest. “She has her place here and he has his over there—” a wave of the hand toward a sprawling modern place near a free-form landscaped swimming pool. “And there are others for family and visitors,” he added as he walked her through the beautiful grounds along a winding flagstone path that ended at the door of a small cottage. “This one is for you.”

The one he’d brought her to was older than the others, a rough ivory-colored stucco house with deep-set windows and a broad flagstone veranda all across the front. It was quite the most lovely welcoming little house Natalie had ever seen.

On a trellis on one side of the porch a deep burgundy bougainvillea grew all the way up to the roof and draped along it, providing privacy and welcome shade from the sun.

Though it was winter in Brazil, the day was still warm, and Natalie was glad to step into the shade while Christo took out a key and opened the door, then held it for her to precede him.

The inside of the house was cool and as welcoming at the exterior. A rattan sofa and chairs with colorful jungle print cushions were grouped at one end of the main room, and there was a small kitchen and dining area at the other. French doors opened onto another veranda beyond the dining table.

There was a small hallway with a bath and a bedroom where Christo carried her suitcase. Natalie followed him in and stopped as she stared at the one wide bed.

Instantly her gaze flew to Christo at the same moment he turned and looked at her.

“I’m staying at Avó’s,” he said. “Don’t worry. You can, too, of course. I just thought, under the circumstances, you might prefer it here where you could have a little privacy and some space. Where you won’t be under the microscope all the time.”

“I would,” Natalie said quickly. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him then, and for the first time since she’d agreed to come, it felt almost right. Almost as if she might not have made the biggest mistake of her life.

Walking back out into the main room, she turned in a circle, trying to absorb the peace and the beauty of the place. “It’s gorgeous here, all of it,” she told Christo. “Your dad’s place looks amazing and your grandmother’s is really lovely. But I really like it here best. It’s homey.”

She wondered, when she said it, if it sounded rude. But for the first time Christo actually smiled, too.

“It was Avó’s,” he told her. “This is her old house. Renovated a bit now—” he nodded toward the updated kitchen “—but it was where she and my grandfather lived, where Xanti was raised. It was where she was still living when I first came here as a boy. Xanti was living in Europe then. Making lots of money, but he hadn’t come back yet to build his palace.” He dipped his head in the direction of Xanti’s house, then looked around here and ran his hand down the doorjamb proprietarily. “I like it here, too.”

It was one of those moments of perfect communion that they shared. One that made Natalie ache with longing for what could be but never would. What it made Christo feel, she didn’t know.

Abruptly he said, “I should go back and see Avó. Do you want to come or will you rest a while?”

“I’ll rest,” Natalie said.

He opened his mouth, started to say something, then shut it again. Another long look arced between them, and Natalie found herself almost leaning into it before she recollected herself and straightened up.

Christo ran his tongue over his lips, then cleared his throat. “Come up to Avó’s when you feel like it,” he said, businesslike again, already stepping toward the door. “Tchau.”

“Tchau,” Natalie whispered and felt her throat close on the word.

But Christo didn’t hear. He was already striding toward his grandmother’s house, not even glancing back.

It had been the right thing to bring Natalie.

It was important for his grandmother not to worry about him. And she would have worried, even though she would have smiled and teased and made a joke of throwing women in his way.

Christo had been shocked at the change in her. He’d seen her four months ago when he’d come to visit over Easter. And she was a shadow now of the woman she’d been then.

He hadn’t believed his father when he’d called. Had it been only five days ago? Yes. It didn’t seem possible for the world to have changed that fast. Maybe the whole world hadn’t, but his had.

His grandmother had been the single constant dependable anchor in his life since he’d been barely six years old. She was the one who’d had time for him, who’d listened to him, who’d both trusted him and demanded more of him. The man he’d become owed more to her than to anyone.

He hadn’t believed it when Xanti had said she was dying.

“I just talked to her a couple of weeks ago!” Christo had protested. “She never said a word.”

“Would she?”

The question had stopped Christo’s protest like a blow to the heart.

Would she tell him? He knew the answer even as his father’s question echoed in his head.

No, she wouldn’t. Not while he was so far away. Not while he had his own life. She wouldn’t want to take him away from it, wouldn’t want him to worry, to fret about what he couldn’t change.

But now that he thought about it, he remembered again the talk about finding him a wife. There had been gentle teasing in her words as there always was. But last time there had been something urgent. Something more.

“She is dying,” Xanti repeated. “So I’m getting married.”

“To whom?” Christo had demanded, stunned.

“To Katia! Who else?” Xanti had sounded affronted at the question. Katia Ferreira did public relations for the sporting-goods company his father worked with. She was in her mid-thirties, pretty enough, very blonde, a quickwitted, savvy businesswoman. Unlike the other women who had come and gone in his father’s life, Katia had never seemed enthralled by Xanti’s boyish antics and mercurial behavior—or by Xanti himself for that matter.

“And she’ll have you?” Christo had asked.

“She loves me. It will be good,” Xanti retorted. “It will make your grandmother happy. She can stop worrying about me.”

Ergo, Christo knew, she would be worrying about him. About finding a wife for him. And that had led him instinctively to the notion of bringing Natalie with him to Brazil.

But the moment he’d thought it, he knew he couldn’t. Then he knew he had to. He didn’t want to. Oh, yes, he did.

His mind, usually incisive, his decisions, clear-cut, were anything but for the next twenty-four hours. It was madness, foolishness. It was a bad idea all around.

But it wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t ask just any woman, he knew that. Avó wasn’t stupid. She would see through such a ruse in a minute.

But she would believe Natalie.

She would love Natalie.

She wouldn’t just see the outer beauty of Natalie Ross. She would appreciate her gentleness, her compassion, her innate toughness, her sincerity, her sense of humor. They were both strong people, caring people.

He suspected Natalie would like his grandmother, too.

But it hadn’t been easy to ask her. He still thought about her far too often. He still woke up reaching for her.

Besides, he knew she’d object. He knew she’d say it was wrong.

It wasn’t, damn it. Not to make the most beloved person in his life happy. Not to keep her from worrying about something she had no control over.

But if he thought the asking had been hard, having Natalie here with him now in the bosom of his family was worse—because almost instantly she seemed to belong.

The days were busy with wedding preparations. He didn’t have a lot of time to spend with her because Xanti was always thinking of things to have him do.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” she said when he apologized. “I can help, too.”

She did—running errands for Katia, making place cards for the tables at the reception, even helping with some minor alterations to the wedding dress. And if she spent a fair amount of time helping Katia, she spent even more time with his grandmother.

Despite her discomfort with their charade, she played it well. She didn’t keep a low profile. And she didn’t shy away from his family.

On the contrary, she sought them out.

“You don’t have to spend every minute with them,” he told her.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and hurt. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

“Of course not. It’s fine,” he said gruffly, scowling, out of sorts and not quite sure why. “I just don’t want you to feel—put upon.”

“I’m not. I’m enjoying myself. I like your grandmother.”

“She likes you, too.”

So did everyone else.

Xanti, of course, thought she was delightful. But Xanti thought that about most females. There was more to his approval of Natalie, though.

Thursday night, two days after they’d arrived, he and his father were sharing a beer on the veranda and staying out of the way of even more wedding preparations going on in Avó’s house. They stood there in the twilight and watched through the windows as the women bustled back and forth.

Then Xanti dropped into a chair and tipped it back on two legs, then took a long swallow of his beer and looked up at his son who leaned against one of the uprights that supported the veranda roof. “You’re a lot smarter than I was at your age.”

Christo raised a brow. “Doesn’t take much.”

Xanti laughed. “Probably not. Some men teach by bad example. And I did a damn good job of it for a lot of years.” Then his grin faded and his expression grew serious as he added, “But I’m glad you didn’t turn out the same way. Glad you picked the right woman the first time around.”

Christo opened his mouth—and closed it again. He couldn’t deny it, so he didn’t say anything at all. Only when Xanti looked at him quizzically, did he finally answer.

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I do.” Xanti was emphatic. “I like Natalie. She makes you smile, brings you to life—the same way Katia settles me down.”

That perception did raise Christo’s eyebrows. He would not have expected such self-awareness from his father. The first was a variation on a long-standing complaint Xanti had voiced since he was a child—that Christo was always too serious, too adult.

“Someone had to be,” had always been Christo’s retort.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Xanti said now, his mouth quirking once more into a faint grin. “And you’re right, of course. I wasn’t much of a father. I’m sorry. Maybe I’ll do better this time around.”

“This time?” Christo stared, nonplussed. “You mean—? Is Katia—?” He was speechless at the unspoken possibility Xanti hinted at, though he supposed he shouldn’t be.

“No!” Xanti said hastily. “But—” he shrugged fatalistically “—you never know the future, do you? What will be will be, they say. And what about your future? When are you tying the knot?”

Christo, distracted by the possibility of his father becoming one again, dragged his mind back to the question, and realized it was another he didn’t want to answer. “We haven’t discussed it.”

“Why not?”

Christo shrugged his back against one of the uprights of the veranda. “It’s early days yet.”

“Not as early as you think,” Xanti warned. “Don’t waste time. Don’t string her along.”

“Don’t give me advice on women,” Christo snapped.

All four legs of Xanti’s chair came back to earth with a thump. “Relax.” He held up a hand as if to back Christo off. “Just offering a suggestion. I’m only saying that your Natalie is too good to lose. You don’t want her marrying someone else.”

Christo’s teeth came together. “She isn’t marrying anyone else!”

“Of course not,” Xanti said easily. He tipped back again, sipped his beer, stared into the distance.

And Christo tried to breathe again. Tried not to think that someday, of course, she would marry someone else.

She might say she had no intention of ever marrying, but he knew better. Natalie was too loving, too giving. She would find a man to love and she would marry him. Even now he could see her in his grandmother’s kitchen, laughing with one of Katia’s cousins. One of her male cousins.

Primitive feelings of a rage that he didn’t want to examine too closely bubbled very near the surface, playing havoc with his common sense and reason. His fingers choked the beer bottle in his hand.

“So,” Xanti said, “how about a game of pool?”

“No,” Christo said. He shoved away from the upright and thumped his empty beer bottle on the table. “Natalie and I are going for a walk. She wants to see the gardens.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHE didn’t see him coming.

One minute she was busy tying ribbons on little personal boxes of chocolates that Katia had decided would be perfect by each table setting at the reception while she chatted and laughed with Katia’s cousin, Julio, who was barely twenty but capable of flirting madly because she was out of reach. And the next Christo was standing at her elbow, saying, “Come out with me.”

“You can’t take her,” Katia protested, laughing. “She’s working.”

But Christo just said, “She’s worked enough. Come on.” And giving her no time to object, he took the ribbons out of her hands and hauled her to her feet, practically stepping on Julio’s as he did so.

“Boa noite,” he said to the whole room, cupping her elbow with his fingers and steering her toward the door.

“Um, boa noite,” Natalie echoed as he shut the door behind them. “Good night.”

A flurry of tchaus and boa noites followed them, but Christo kept moving until Natalie dug in her heels and made him stop.

“What,” she demanded turning to face him, “was that all about?”

Christo sucked in a sharp breath. His jaw tightened. “I don’t know.”

She stared at him. “You don’t know?”

“I didn’t bring you here to work for Katia.” He turned and began walking quickly across the lawn toward the gardens.

Natalie hurried to catch up with him. “No, you brought me here to try to convince them we’re getting married. And being a part of the family, helping out, is a way to do that.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets, but he didn’t stop walking. “I know that.” He didn’t sound angry, but there was an impatient edge to his voice that she was used to hearing only when he was dealing with annoying legal cases and difficult clients.

“So what’s the problem? Am I doing something you don’t want me to do?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again abruptly. “No. It’s fine. You’re doing everything right.”

“Yes, I can tell. You’re so pleased,” she said sarcastically.

His jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything. They’d reached the patio with its inground naturally landscaped swimming pool. Lit from below, it gleamed like a bright turquoise gem in the growing darkness. Earlier that afternoon they had swum there, had laughed and teased and splashed water at each other while his grandmother had looked on, smiling. Now that seemed like a hundred years ago.

Just as the nights she had spent in his bed now seemed to have taken place in another lifetime.

The awareness was still there. She could feel it. It seemed to pulse between them even now. In the cool of the evening, she could feel the heat of his presence, though he wasn’t even looking at her. Instead he started walking again, heading off down one of the several paths lit with small inground lights that led through small copses and wooded areas.

“Where are we going?” she asked him as she tried to keep up with his long strides.

“To see the gardens.”

“Now?” She knew they were on the other side of the woods. His grandmother had talked about them this afternoon, had said that his grandfather had begun them when this was still a farm.

Now Christo turned an impatient scowl on her. “You said you wanted to see them.”

“Well, yes. But maybe in the daylight? When they’re actually visible?”