The Saxon Brides: Mistaken Mistress

The Saxon Brides

Mistaken Mistress

Spaniard’s Seduction

Pregnancy Proposal

Tessa Radley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

TESSA RADLEY loves traveling, reading and watching the world around her. As a teen Tessa wanted to be an intrepid foreign correspondent. But after completing a bachelor of arts degree and marrying her sweetheart she became fascinated with law and ended up studying further and practicing as an attorney in a city practice.

A six-month break traveling through Australia with her family reawoke the yen to write. And life as a writer suits her perfectly; traveling and reading count as research, and as for analyzing the world … well, she can think “what if” all day long. When she’s not reading, traveling or thinking about writing, she’s spending time with her husband, her two sons, or her zany and wonderful friends. You can contact Tessa through her website, www.tessaradley.com.

Mistaken Mistress

For Lesley Marshall,

who is always an inspiration.

One

The annual Saxon’s Folly masked ball was already in full swing when Alyssa Blake crept up the cobbled drive.

“Walk tall,” she whispered to herself as she skirted the shadows between the rows of parked Mercedes and Daimler cars. “Look like you belong.”

The winery’s historic homestead came into sight, brightly lit against the dark sky. A triple-storey white Victorian building that had withstood more than a century of fires, floods and even an infamous Hawkes Bay earthquake. With every step the music grew louder, even though Alyssa couldn’t yet see the partygoers.

At the top of the stone stairs a large uniformed man blocked the double, wooden front doors. Alyssa came to a halt.

Butler?

Or guard?

She wavered for a moment, her heartbeat quickening as her eyes scanned the building.

Don’t panic.

“I’ve lost my invitation.” She practised the timeworn excuse to herself under her breath. It sounded lame. Particularly as she’d never received one of the sought-after silver-embossed, midnight-blue invitations. If the guard took the time to check, he wouldn’t find her on the guest list. But would he check?

Perhaps she could sashay past with a smile? What was the worst that could happen? The doorman, guard—or whatever he was—would fail to locate her on the list of invitees and demand her identity? No one would suspect Alyssa Blake, leading wine writer for Wine Watch magazine, of gate-crashing the annual Saxon’s Folly masked ball. Or at least only the few who knew how much Joshua Saxon, CEO of Saxon’s Folly Wines, detested Alyssa after the article she’d done a couple of years ago—and most people’s memories didn’t extend that far back.

There was a chance the burly doorman would let her in without a second glance. Wearing a long, ruby-red dress and her flamboyant black mask decorated with feathers and diamante studs, it was unlikely he’d suspect her being a gatecrasher. Alyssa hauled in a shaky breath.

She’d made up her mind to brazen her way past the doorman—guard, whatever—when a side door opened and light streaked out into the night. A couple slid out into the embrace of the darkness, laughing. The door swung closed but the latch failed to click shut.

Quickly, like a thief in the night, Alyssa slipped into the enormous homestead. She stood to one side of the entrance hall. Ahead of her, an imposing staircase swept upward.

At the top of the stairs Alyssa stepped into a different world—a world of wealth and privilege where women fluttered like designer-clad butterflies in the arms of men in dress suits and bow ties.

After one glance, she dismissed the dancers. Instead she scanned the vast reception room, searching … searching for the man she’d gone to the lengths of gate-crashing a masked ball to find.

“Have you just arrived?”

She looked up into a pair of glittering dark eyes shielded by a black mask.

“I’m a little late,” she managed, her nerves rolling as the realisation sank in that she’d made it to the ball.

“Better late than never.”

“Never say never,” she quipped, wagging a finger at him.

He laughed. “A woman of strong opinions, right?”

“And proud of it.”

His voice was husky, oddly familiar … and terribly sexy. A sweeping glance from behind her mask showed her that he was tall, the broad, hard planes of his body showing to best advantage in the superbly tailored dinner jacket. Dark hair topped his head while a black mask concealed his face. A handsome face, she speculated.

“Dance with me.” He stretched an imperious arm out. Mr. Tall, Dark and Probably Handsome wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Not that those attributes had any effect on her. She preferred her dates kind, caring and capable … qualities that were becoming harder to find. She stared at the demanding arm.

“I take it that silence means yes?”

Before she could object that it most definitely meant no the arm locked around her shoulder and he propelled her toward the dance floor. She started to object. She wasn’t here to celebrate the budding of the new season’s vines, she’d come with a purpose … and it wasn’t to dance with this sexy, cocky stranger. But nor did she intend to cause a scene and be noticed.

If Joshua Saxon discovered her presence, he’d toss her out before she could even try to explain why she was here. Better not to cause a stir by refusing. At least she would blend in better with the crowd. And she could continue her search from the dance floor.

She let him sweep her into his arms and into the throng of dancers. The covetous glances her partner drew made her reevaluate whether this had been a good idea. Perhaps dancing with him would attract the attention she was so keen to avoid. She assessed him through her eyelashes, measuring what the other women saw: broad shoulders beautifully displayed in a dinner jacket, an uncompromising jawline. She glanced upward into eyes that gleamed behind the black mask.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice deep.

She considered that. If he was a member of the wine fraternity, they might have met at a wine show. It was possible he might have seen her during the occasional appearance she made on television, a guest spot on a food show … or perhaps he’d read her Wine Watch articles or the column she wrote for The Aucklander newspaper. But none of those meant he knew her.

So she shook her head.

“Well, I’m going to enjoy seeing your face when we unmask at midnight—it’s a tradition.” As a pair of dancers jostled them, he leaned toward her. “Do you have a name, Oh Silent One?”

Alyssa hesitated, transfixed by the way the hard line of his mouth tilted up into a smile. The contrast was intriguing. “Alice,” she said finally, using the name on her birth certificate rather than the name she’d reinvented herself under as a teenager.

“Alice?” Those lips curved further, deepening the sensual smile. “Do you feel as if you’ve stepped through the looking glass, Alice?”

If he only knew.

“A little,” she confessed in a low voice.

He bent his head closer. “Does that mean this is the first spring masquerade you’ve attended?”

“Yes.”

“That explains why you’re not wearing a costume.”

She let her gaze linger pointedly on his dinner jacket. “You’re not in costume, either.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have time to plan it this year.”

A busy man, then. But he didn’t need the trappings of a Robin Hood or a regency rake, she decided. He was commanding enough in his own right.

“Most women live to dress up.”

His comment set her teeth on edge. “I am not most women.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll be even more intrigued to meet you face-to-face at midnight. So Alice, you don’t like to dress up, but are you like all the Cinderellas—” he waved a dismissive hand at the beautiful women around them “—here to find a wealthy Prince Charming?” A tinge of cynicism coloured his deep voice.

“Definitely not here to find Prince Charming, wealthy or otherwise.” But she shivered at his percipience. She was certainly here to find someone.

“You’re not given to much conversation.” He sounded far too curious for her liking.

“All these people,” she simpered. “I’m not used to it.”

His gaze raked her. “I’d peg you as a sophisticated city girl—not someone who’d be nervous around people.”

Alyssa glanced down at the plunging V-neckline of her ruby-red dress. She’d better take care … he was altogether too astute. Her pulse pounded in her head. She couldn’t afford to be thrown out—this was her best chance. “Perhaps it’s the excitement. The music … the beautiful people, the handsome masked man.” Her voice was sweeter than syrup. She glanced up through the satin strip of her mask to see how the flattery was going down and caught a white flash of teeth.

“As long as you’re not nervous, Alice,” he whispered. “That’s not allowed.”

Alyssa shuddered as his warm breath skimmed her sensitive ear and arousal shot unexpectedly through her.

“You are nervous. You’re trembling.”

She couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had had such an immediate effect on her. Safer to say nothing.

“You’re the most silent woman I’ve ever met,” he growled, and pulled her closer to avoid a couple dancing with far too much enthusiasm in the mass of bodies.

“Not always.” Not when she wasn’t watching every word—her normal stock-in-trade—in case she slipped up. This disturbing stranger was far too confident … and she was not in the frame of mind to handle him.

Not tonight.

A flash of red hair caused her head to whip around, and reality came crashing in.

Roland! She couldn’t mistake him, not even with a rakish pirate’s eye patch. The red hair was a giveaway. He held a slim, dark-haired sprite in his arms. Across the crowded room Alyssa followed the couple’s progress over her partner’s broad shoulder, saw Roland say something to the brunette and watched her reply.

Alyssa had read that her name was Amy … and she was Roland’s fiancée. The two of them slowed and left the dance floor.

Panic surged through Alyssa. She couldn’t lose them—him. Not when she’d come so close.

“I’m parched, I need a drink,” she said, not caring how abrupt she sounded, and freed herself unceremoniously from her partner’s hold.

“What would you like?” Her stranger showed every sign of coming with her.

“I’ll find myself something.” Alyssa glanced anxiously after her quarry and back to the partner she’d failed to shake.

She mustn’t give herself away.

He was much too distracting, too perceptive. She didn’t want any third parties overhearing what she had to say to Roland. This was private. Too important. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure there are other people you should be mingling with … dancing with.”

He wouldn’t lack for partners. He danced like a dream … confident … moving with rhythmic grace, a man aware of his attraction and power. She jerked away from him.

His sensuous mouth twisted. “None as interesting as you, Alice. What would you like to drink? A glass of Saxon’s Folly Sauvignon Blanc? I can recommend last season’s vintage.”

Perhaps letting him get her a drink would get rid of him. “Just water, please.”

He beckoned to a waiter who arrived at breakneck speed.

So much for getting rid of him. Alyssa resisted the urge to swear.

“Just water?” His eyes gleamed through the mask. At her nod, he turned to the waiter. “Two bottles of Perrier.”

Alyssa forced herself not to look for Roland, but she was anxiously aware that if she didn’t find him now, she might lose him again.

“I need the cloakroom,” she improvised. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she flung over her shoulder, and dived into the crowd.

A glance back showed that her Mr. Tall, Dark and Probably Handsome had been detained by two women who each kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks, the mask clearly an ineffective disguise to the ambitious Cinderellas. Impatience was carved into every line of his tall, muscular body, but he murmured a polite response.

Good, he wasn’t following.

Then Alyssa put him out of her mind as she wove her way between men in tuxedos, women in silk and satin dresses, intent on finding the man she’d come to confront.

But Roland—and his fiancée—had vanished.

Alyssa hurried out onto the balcony outside, brushing past Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara flirting in the shadows, and a couple of men smoking alone.

She peered over the white wrought iron railing, through the criss-cross shadows cast by a clump of tall Nikau palms, into the well-lit garden below. Two couples stood under the trees. Her breath caught. But neither man sported that distinctive red hair. Her pulse quickening with urgency, Alyssa hurried along the wide balcony and down a set of steep narrow stairs and slipped through the side door back into the homestead.

Sweeping up the long skirts of her dress, she hurried, peering into rooms she passed. A quick scan of the large dining room with tables laden with finger food failed to reveal Roland.

Roland must’ve taken his fiancée—Amy—upstairs. Alyssa hesitated, eyeing a staircase that appeared to lead to another wing. The bedrooms must be up there. What if she disturbed them in an … intimate moment?

Her teeth played with her bottom lip. She’d come so far, she couldn’t chicken out now. Drawing a deep breath, she moved toward the stairs.

But before she got there, the door on her right swung open and a brunette burst out. Amy. Her colour was high, her hair mussed. Alyssa stopped, and then Roland came rushing into the corridor, his eye patch in his hand, his expression determined.

“Amy, listen to—”

“Roland?” Like a sleepwalker Alyssa reached out and touched his arm. “Roland Saxon?”

She knew exactly who he was but she couldn’t help enunciating the name that had been imprinted on her mind for years.

He gave her an impatient glance. “Yes?”

“I’m—” She hesitated, her mind suddenly blank. Everything she’d planned to say withered under the attack of doubt devils. Dare she reveal herself as Alice McKay? He hadn’t responded to any of her letters or e-mails, so why should he be any more welcoming now?

He glanced past her to where the brunette had taken the main stairs and disappeared in the direction of the ballroom.

Concerned that he would brush by her and vanish again, Alyssa thrust out her hand and said, “I’m Alyssa Blake. I’m—”

Recognition flared in the eyes that met hers in astonishment. “The journalist who did that hatchet job on Saxon’s Folly. Yes, I know who you are.”

No, you don’t.

Finally, to her immense relief, he took her hand and shook it, before letting it drop. “What are you doing here?”

Alyssa found she was shaking. Roland had touched her. His skin had been warm and solid. Real. She’d met him. At last.

Struggling for composure, she said, “I’d like to arrange to interview you for a feature in Wine Watch.”

Now she had his full attention, but his expression had shifted to wariness. “What would the focus of the story be?”

“I’m doing a story on how some of the strongest brands in the industry have been built. As the marketing director of Saxon’s Folly Wines, I’d like your comments.”

“You haven’t been too complimentary about Saxon’s Folly in the past, Ms. Blake.”

“Maybe I’ve had a change of mind.” Please, God, let him believe it. She needed a chance to meet with him one-on-one. They had so much to talk about.

“I don’t know—”

“Please.” She was practically begging now. “It will be a positive article. I promise.”

“Why should I trust you? Joshua believed you were going to do a feature on the estate. Instead you lambasted his management methods.”

“Joshua Saxon had it coming,” she said heatedly. “He’s the most aggravatingly uncommunicative man I’ve ever interviewed.” The man had refused to see her in person, had given her precisely ten minutes of his time on the phone. And during each miserable second of those minutes his terse voice had made it clear that he was doing her a favour. A very junior cellar hand who’d been in the job for less than a week had shown her around the winery. Alyssa had asked him about his job and discovered that the previous cellar hand had been fired under very hush-hush circumstances. A few calls to the disgruntled former employee and she had a different story from the one she’d planned to do. Now she told Roland, “The facts bore me out.”

“Joshua didn’t think so.”

“I did my job.”

He looked her up and down. “Some job.”

“I tell the public what they ought to know.” She knew that sounded pious. So she drew a steadying breath. “Look, this is getting us nowhere. The piece I’m working on now is different. You can even see the copy before it goes to print.” Something she’d never offered but she had to see him privately.

He looked dubious. “Why the change of heart? And why ask me now, here at the ball? Why not contact me by more conventional ways, telephone—or even e-mail—to set up an appointment?”

I tried.

You never responded.

She’d tried as Alice McKay. She’d reveal Alice tomorrow. All she could do now was tempt him with the promise of a great profile. He was a marketing man. Unlike his arrogant brother, he knew he needed the goodwill of the press. “It will be great publicity for you, for Saxon’s Folly.”

But already he was moving past her. Time to give him an ultimatum. She spoke to his back. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Alyssa knew she’d lost his attention. “When?” Alyssa switched into the familiar role, closing the escape route. “I’m in the area tomorrow. Shall we meet at The Grapevine—” she named a popular café “—in town?”

He turned his head and gave a slow nod, and her heart leapt. At last! Quickly she confirmed a time. Alyssa wanted to punch a fist in the air and yell, “Yes.” After all the years …

But instead she smiled sedately and banished her impatience. Time enough tomorrow to celebrate.

Joshua Saxon was frowning. The fascination that his mystery lady in red held for him was fast becoming a compulsion. He’d been holding the two bottles of Perrier, and positioned himself so that he wouldn’t miss the lady when she reappeared. But she hadn’t.

Either he’d missed her. Or she hadn’t been as desperate to go to the cloakroom as she’d led him to believe.

He made for the balcony on the off chance that she’d passed him and gone outside.

As soon as he stepped outside he wished he hadn’t. Roland, no mask concealing his features, had Amy pinned against the balcony rail, trying to say something. But Amy was shaking her head wildly, her mask askew, telling Roland she was going home.

Under the hanging party lights Joshua caught a glimpse of tears streaking her cheeks. Roland growled that she wasn’t going anywhere.

None of his business. Neither of them would thank him for the interference.

Then he spotted a flash of dark red in the gardens below and all thoughts about his brother’s romantic problems fled. Alice. He leapt down the stairs that led to the garden.

“You aren’t leaving already, are you?”

She turned, her rich red dress swirling around her legs, every line of her body revealing her surprise.

“Umm …”

“You were.” Outraged, he stared at her. Suddenly it had become critically important to know who the provocative woman was, where to find her. But he couldn’t tell her that. Instead he said, “You can’t leave before the unmasking.” He checked his Rolex. “It’s only three-quarters of an hour away. And then the real party begins.”

“I need to make this an early night.”

Joshua almost laughed. Women rarely used that line on him. “The Saxon ball happens only once a year. No early night tonight.”

“I have a big day tomorrow.”

“Big day?” His curiosity was well and truly captured.

“Work.”

She definitely wasn’t the most talkative woman he’d ever met. And that intrigued the hell out of him. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Work? On a Sunday?”

She nodded. “Some of us are slaves to demanding bosses.”

Her lips curved into an irresistible smile, and Joshua found himself smiling back. He couldn’t imagine any boss forcing this woman to work against her will. He twisted the cap off one of the bottles of Perrier he held and handed it out to her. “At least take the time to finish the drink you needed so badly.”

She looked startled, and a little embarrassed colour stained the elegant jaw that the mask didn’t cover. “Oh, thank you.”

“Do you want a glass?” Joshua twisted the cap off his own bottle.

“No, this is fine.”

He gave her a reckless grin. “I probably wouldn’t get you one—you might disappear again.” Tilting his head to one side, he waited for her response. For an explanation of where she’d been.

But she only drew a sip and said, “Mmm, this is good.”

The soft hum of appreciation riveted his attention on her mouth; the lips pursed against the top of the bottle were full and lush as she drank thirstily from the bottle. A sudden stab of sexual awareness pierced him.

“Dance with me,” he said brusquely. He wanted to hold her in his arms again, feel her body against his.

“Here?”

“Why not?” Joshua moved closer. Out here there were no hordes of dancers to navigate in an overheated room. It was private in the cool intimacy of the gardens.

She didn’t resist as he took the bottle from her fingers and propped it with his against the base of a Nikau palm. Nor did she utter a word of objection as one arm slid round her waist and drew her toward him.

His left hand closed around her right. Their bodies caught the rhythm first, then their feet started to shuffle against the night-damp grass.

She smelled of jasmine and heady notes of ylang-ylang. On a conscious level Joshua found his vintner’s nose analysing the feminine mix of scents, scents only a woman confident of herself, of her sexuality and her place in the world would wear. The man in him responded to the rich, sensual aromas on another—much baser—level.

Her hip slid against the top of his thigh.

Desire exploded through him. A rush of heat chased through his bloodstream, wild and unwanted. He resisted for an instant in time, then he shifted, giving in to the heat, his leg brushing between hers as they moved.

She gave a little gasp, and her body softened into his.

Instantly Joshua relinquished her hand and wound his arm around her shoulders pulling her closer. She was slim and soft in the curve of his arms. He bent his head, nuzzled the smooth skin under her jaw, and heard the sharp, telling little exhalation.

“You smell wonderful,” he murmured.

“Thank you.” She sounded breathless. “You smell pretty good yourself.” She gave an awkward laugh. “Goodness, we should start a mutual olfactory admiration society.”

He doubted that her sense of smell ruled her life as it did his. While he didn’t have his younger brother Heath’s highly developed ability, he’d grown up at Saxon’s Folly immersed in wine, and smelling was as natural to him as breathing.

He nuzzled again. “You smell of dewy nights and dark, exotic spices.” He heard her breathing quicken. This time he pressed a soft kiss under her jaw. She quivered. “So soft,” he murmured throatily.

“Oh.” A sigh escaped her.