Mistresses: Passionate Revenge. Trish Morey
search of fresh prey.
Impatient with the direction of her thoughts, she pushed herself up out of the chair she’d specifically chosen because it was the first thing across the room Andreas would see upon entering, giving up any pretence of appearing cool and calm in favour of striding across the room to the windows, gazing down unseeingly across the busy street to the cool green serenity of Hyde Park beyond.
No, Andreas was no Kurt. He might be arrogant and autocratic, but he would never stoop to such a thing. He’d taken so long to convince her to come with him and he’d gone to such expense. Why do that if he wasn’t going to go through with it?
Her hand went to the drapes and she rested her head against it. Although he’d shown no mercy yesterday. He’d invaded the hotel like an army general routing the enemy, the guests evacuated, the sleeping turfed from their beds, and Demetrius summarily vanquished. She shivered. How could a haircut and a suitcase full of new clothes make her blind to what had happened at his behest only yesterday? Was she so fickle?
No, Andreas might resemble a Greek god, but she’d be a fool to assume he would be a merciful one.
The buzzer sounded and she jumped, suddenly all pins and needles as she crossed the room and pulled open the door. The porter nodded. ‘I’m here to collect the luggage for the airport. Your car is waiting downstairs, miss.’
She took a deep breath, trying to settle her quivering stomach. So she hadn’t been abandoned? That was a good thing, surely? She grabbed her jacket and scarf, threw her bag over her shoulder and marched out, doing her best to play the cool, confident person she was supposed to be when inside even her blood was fizzing. My God, she was actually doing this! She was leaving England for a Greek island with a man she barely knew, a billionaire who needed a pretend mistress.
And yes, he might be arrogant and ruthless and used to getting his own way, and yes, she’d seen enough of him to know she didn’t want to cross him, but it was just for one month. And at the end of that month, she’d walk away a millionaire herself.
How hard could it be?
She smiled as she made her way through the elegant lobby, the waves in her newly styled hair bouncing in time with the tapping of her heels on the marble floor. Finally her luck was changing. Finally Cleo Taylor was going to be a success.
A doorman in a top hat touched a hand to his brow as she emerged. ‘Miss Taylor,’ he said, as if she were some honoured guest he’d been waiting for and not the hick girl who’d walked in wearing cowboy boots less than a day before, and he pulled open the door to a waiting limousine.
She dipped her head and climbed inside, sliding onto the seat behind the driver, opposite where Andreas was sitting totally engrossed in some kind of report perched on his knees.
‘I thought you could probably use the extra time,’ he said by way of explanation, flipping over a page without looking up.
‘You mean you’re blaming me for you being late.’
He looked up at that, looked ready to take issue with her words, but whatever he’d been about to say died before it ever got to his lips. He didn’t have to say a word, though, not with the way his eyes spoke volumes as they drank her in, slowly and thoroughly, from the tip of her coloured hair to the winking toenails peeking out at him from her sandals, a slow gaze that ignited a slow burn under her skin, the flames licking at her nipples, turning them hard, before changing direction and licking their way south.
‘Cleo?’
‘You were expecting someone else?’
The report on his lap slid sideways, forgotten. She smiled. ‘Well? Do you think you got your money’s worth?’
They’d done something with her eyes, he realised. They’d done something with her hair too, so it was no longer mousy and shone in what looked like a hundred different colours, and her clothes were a world apart from her jeans and cowboy boots, but it was her eyes that looked most different. Before they’d been the misty blue of a Santorini morning, but now suddenly it seemed the mists had cleared and they were the perfect blue of a still summer’s day.
‘Have I had my money’s worth?’ he mused, finally getting to her question. She was happy with the results, that much was clear, but not half as happy as he was. His hunch had been right. She would be perfect. ‘Maybe not yet. But I fully intend to.’ She gasped, colour flooding her cheeks almost instantly, and it was his turn to smile. Her reactions were so instantaneous, so honest. He hoped she’d never lose that. At least, not for the next few weeks.
He picked up the abandoned report and returned to his reading. He didn’t want to have to work late.
Not tonight.
Tonight he hoped to have better things to do.
The Jet Centre at London City Airport ushered them through with a minimum of fuss, expediting immigration and customs requirements so that they were ready to board less than forty minutes after leaving the hotel.
She recognised the logo she saw on the side of the small jet they were approaching, the same stylised X she’d seen adorning Andreas’ luggage. ‘Isn’t that your logo?’
Andreas nodded. ‘You recognised it?’
She shook her head. He was missing the point. ‘You own a plane? Your own jet?’
‘Not entirely,’ he responded, stepping back to let her precede him up the short flight of steps. ‘The company leases it. Along with the helicopter we have for short-haul flights within Greece itself. It is a tax-effective arrangement.’
She shook her head. He imagined she was interested in his financing arrangements? For someone who’d only recently made her first ever flight in a commercial airline, and then cramped in cattle class with three hundred other tortured souls, the concept of having one’s own plane at one’s beck and call was mind-boggling. She’d thought the limousine was the height of luxury and here he was with his own private jet. And a helicopter.
‘But there must be two dozen airlines flying between London and Greece every day.’
He shrugged. ‘I expect so. But not when I want to.’
That was at the heart of it, she guessed, and what Andreas wanted, Andreas got. After all, wasn’t that what she was doing here? And if he could afford to throw away a million dollars plus expenses on her, clearly a million dollars didn’t mean very much to him. He had money to burn.
A smiling stewardess greeted her, directing her to a seat, showing her where to store her bag and taking her jacket before disappearing again. Cleo settled herself in, looking around the cabin in wonder and doing a rapid rethink.
The interior oozed comfort, a centre aisle flanked by no more than half a dozen ultra-wide armchairs in dove-grey leather that looked more suited to a fireside setting than to any plane travel she’d ever heard of. She thought about the cramped conditions on her flight to London, the lack of space to store her own things let alone the pillows, blankets and toiletry packs they weighed you down with so that you couldn’t even sit down when you boarded, of the man in the seat in front who’d jerked his seat back the first chance he’d had and left it there the entire flight and the child two rows back with the spluttering cough. Who wouldn’t choose flying like this over queues and delays and airline food if they could afford it? If you had money to burn, there were no doubt worse ways to spend it.
Andreas dropped his briefcase down on a timber table-cum-desk that extended from the other wall, slipping into the seat alongside her as the attendant reappeared, this time bearing a tray with two filled champagne flutes. ‘Enjoy your flight,’ she said. ‘We’ll be taking off shortly and I’ll be serving lunch as soon as we’re level.’
Andreas took both glasses, thanking her and passing one to Cleo as the plane started taxiing from the apron. ‘This toast is to you,’ he said, raising his glass, ‘and to our month together. May it be mutually—satisfying.’
The glass paused on the way to her lips. How did he make