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In The Billionaire's Bed
SARA WOOD
He's bedded her…but will he wed her?Catherine can't believe her late landlady has left the manor to workaholic Zach Talent! He may be handsome, but he makes it perfectly clear that he was Catherine off his new property. However, their stormy encounter arouses passion of another kind–and soon she's sharing his bed!But despite the explosive desire between them, Zach insists that this must be a no-strings affair. Catherine knows that she's in love with the man who exists beneath Zach's tough exterior…and to be his mistress is better than to be nothing to him at all….
“Let’s make a deal. You must be used to those. You must understand, Zach—there must be something in this for me. Otherwise, I’m off.”
He looked down at her, reluctant to grant any favors. But she knew that his love for his son would win the day.
“Done!” he said decisively. “But let’s get this clear. It’s just for a month.”
“Agreed.”
“No riotous parties.”
“No.”
Had he come a step closer? It seemed the gap between them had filled with a thick and electrifying heat.
“Next weekend, as part of your duties…I thought…maybe a boat trip.”
She closed her eyes and nodded dumbly. And then she felt something brush her lips. Something warm. Soft yet firm. Every fiber of her being was crying out for Zach to touch her, hold her and make passionate love to her….
She’s his in the bedroom, but he can’t buy her love…
The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality.
Live the dream with more MISTRESS TO A MILLIONAIRE titles by some of your favorite Harlequin Presents
authors.
In the Billionaire’s Bed
Sara Wood
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
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 ONE
‘HI, EVERYONE.’
Catherine tried to sound bright but failed. As she eased her narrow boat alongside Tom’s massive Dutch barge she could see from her friends’ faces that the rumours she’d heard in Saxonbury town were probably true.
Tom, Steve, Nick and Dudley rose from the spacious well of the foredeck, looking alarmingly sympathetic. That made things worse. Her stomach did an impromptu roll of its own accord.
Now she had to face the fact that if Tresanton Island had been sold then her immediate future lay in the hands of the new owner.
Turning her head, she looked back longingly at the beautiful island further up river. She’d had no legal right to be there, even though she’d had the mooring for the past three years. That hadn’t mattered with the tolerant and genial Edith Tresanton as her landlady. But ever since Edith’s death there had been an air of uncertainty about her situation.
Willing hands caught the ropes she tossed. Hitching up her long skirt, she let The Boys—as she called them—haul her on board. Her gypsy-black pre-Raphaelite hair escaped from its binding and she deftly fastened it again, her sweet, fragile-boned face an unusual pallor.
‘Been talking about you,’ Tom said in greeting. ‘Cuppa?’
She shook her head and perched apprehensively on the deck lid. Steve gave her a friendly kiss and wasted no time getting to the point.
‘You know the island’s got a new owner?’ he asked anxiously.
Her heart sank. ‘I suspected it. That means I could be in trouble,’ she said, her hopes disappearing into her tiny size three’s. She rubbed suddenly damp palms on the thin cotton of her flowing skirt. ‘What do you know?’ she asked. ‘Have the people moved in? I didn’t see a car on the bank when I came past.’
‘Removal van’s been and gone. Local traders say a bossy, yuppie London woman’s taken it over,’ Tom answered, spiralling Catherine’s spirits down still further. ‘Fancy yuk-yellow sports car, all chrome and turbo thrust and so’s she. City suit, egg-whisk hair, killer heels and an elaborately painted face.’
‘Not exactly a kindred spirit,’ she muttered.
She’d hoped that a nature lover would buy Tresanton Island. Who else would want somewhere so isolated, so rural? A nature lover would have liked having narrow boats around. Would have considered it romantic. The new owner didn’t sound as if she’d be too empathetic.
‘Yeah. Not our sort—or Edith’s,’ he grunted. ‘A really bossy type. She’s moved her stuff in and cleaned everyone out of expensive gourmet provisions—after screeching with shock-horror because Saxonbury doesn’t stock wheat grass.’ He grinned. ‘Some bright spark directed her to a field for the grass and she went ballistic, calling him an ignorant peasant! That’s all we know.’
Catherine managed a smile then released a huge breath of resignation. It sounded as though there would definitely be changes to the island—and to Edith’s house. The manor’s charming, countrified air would probably be transformed with the addition of a stainless steel kitchen and futuristic technology. And the island laid to lawn.
But what of her? Her wistful gaze lingered on her boat’s scarlet cabin roof cluttered with flower boxes, assorted chimneys and narrow boat paraphernalia. Traditional in style and wonderfully cosy, the narrow boat had been the ideal solution for somewhere cheap to live and work in an expensive area. In all her twenty-six years she’d never felt so insecure.
‘Yellow car’s coming along the lane,’ warned Steve, making everyone sit up sharply.
The colour screamed its yellowness so successfully that it was visible half a mile away. They watched it bumping slowly along. Catherine’s heart bumped too. By the time she motored back to the island and moored her boat the new owner would be in residence.
She stood up shakily, her mouth set. Perhaps she’d be allowed to stay. Edith had let her have a small patch of ground for growing vegetables. And she’d liked to see Catherine’s chickens roaming freely. Maybe this yuppie owner would be equally charmed.
‘Thanks for the information,’ she said, determined to fight her corner. ‘I’d better introduce myself and see where I stand. There’s no point in hanging around and imagining what’s going to happen to me.’
‘Want us to come as your “heavies”?’ suggested Steve, flexing his muscles and adopting a mock-belligerent pose.
She smiled gratefully. Each one of them had helped her enormously in the early days, when the workings of a narrow boat were a mystery to her. All The Boys were poor, but they had good hearts and would do anything for her.
Dwarfed by Steve, she rested her small hand on the thin sleeve of his hole-ridden jumper and made a mental note to knit him another before winter came. If she was still there…
‘I’ll let you know,’ she replied. ‘First I’ll appeal to her better nature. But keep the knuckle-dusters handy in case she hasn’t got one,’ she joked feebly.
‘Get into her good books. Find her some wheat grass,’ suggested Tom drily.
She gave a shaky little laugh. ‘Fat chance!’
‘And if she says your clients can’t use the bridge, or tells you to go?’ Steve asked.
She sucked in a wobbly breath. They all knew that moorings were like rocking horse droppings. Nonexistent.
The thought hit her like a punch in the stomach. It would be the end of her idyllic life. Hello grotty flat in some crime-ridden ghetto. And she felt panic setting in because it would take years to build up her client-base again.
‘I’d have no choice but to leave,’ she answered.
‘Good luck,’ the men chorused with sympathy as she clambered back on board and cast off.
‘Thanks,’ she managed to choke out.
Remarkably, she focused her mind on the tricky task of doing the watery equivalent of a three-point-turn where the river widened. With her stomach apparently full of jitterbugging butterflies competing for the World Title, she straightened the boat up and headed for home on the far side of the island.
Luck? She let out a low groan. Judging from the information about the new owner she’d need something nearer to a miracle.
CHAPTER TWO
ZACHARIAH TALENT didn’t notice the sheet of bluebells which were generously trying to obliterate the woodland floor. In fact, he didn’t even register the existence of the wood itself.
Similarly, hedgerows passed by in a blur of white May blossom, while the verges quite fruitlessly boasted stately pink foxgloves, rising like rockets above the masses of buttery primulas.
City man from the top of his expensively cut dark hair to his polished black shoes, Zach remained oblivious to any of these rural delights.
‘Pretty countryside. Shame about the yokels. They’re dire, I can tell you. Look at that idiot,’ his PA remarked sarcastically, swerving to avoid a lone walker.
‘Uh,’ Zach grunted.
Without looking up from the laptop computer balanced on his knees, he continued to read off a succession of figures into his mobile phone, his trade-mark frown drawing his hard dark brows together.
‘Nearly there, Zach,’ the soignée Jane cooed breathily. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’
Sharply he put Hong Kong on hold and glanced at his PA. She flashed him a smile that seemed worryingly warm. Never one to mix business with pleasure, he met it with his habitual, emotionless stare, his grey eyes cold and forbidding.
Was it happening again? he thought bleakly. And, if so, why did the women he worked with always imagine themselves in love with him? It wasn’t as if he gave them any encouragement. Far from it. He couldn’t be more distant if he tried.
‘It’s just a house. Bricks and mortar. An investment,’ he said curtly.
‘Oh, it’s more than that!’ she declared, alarming him even further with the mingled look of rapture and slyness on her face. ‘It has real character. A home for a family.’ There was a significant pause during which his irritation level increased several notches and then, in the absence of any comment from him, Jane hurried on. ‘It needs modernising, of course. Better facilities all round. But the potential’s there. Huge, airy rooms to set off your elegant antiques and furnishings—and its grounds run down to the River Saxe—’
‘So you said,’ he interrupted, cutting off her estate agent eulogy in mid-flow.
Mentally noting that he might soon have to advertise for a new PA, Zach dealt with his ringing phone, bought a tranche of well-priced bonds on the Hong Kong market and closed a profitable deal on some utilities shares.
‘Have you any idea why Mrs Tresanton left you the house in her will?’ Jane ventured curiously when he’d wrapped the call.
‘No relatives. No one close,’ he replied in his usual curt manner.
But it had been a surprise and he still had no idea why Edith had favoured him. He wasn’t exactly the country type.
To avoid Jane’s unsettling dreamy expression, he looked out of the window and scowled because his headache was getting worse.
The scenery seemed to leap at him, demanding his attention. He had an impression of an explosion of greenery that was almost unnerving.
They were driving along a pot-holed lane beside the river which looked utterly still and so smooth that it could have been enamelled the same blue as the sky. Saxe blue perhaps, he thought idly. He remembered that Edith had often talked of its beauty and had nagged him to call. There’d never been the time, of course.
She had been a good client of his. Almost a mother to him. His mouth tightened in an effort to control the bitter memory of his own mother’s death seventeen years ago, a few months after his father had suffered a fatal stroke.
Odd, how overpowering his grief had been. He’d been eighteen then, but had barely known his parents. They’d both worked so hard for his betterment that he’d been a latch-key kid from the age of five and used to looking after himself. But when they’d died he’d suddenly become truly alone in the world.
Perhaps that was why he had become fond of Edith. Normally he didn’t get close to his clients, preferring to devote himself to managing their financial affairs as creatively and as securely as possible.
But Edith had been different. Although she’d mothered him with constant reprimands about his hectic work schedules, she’d also made him laugh with her odd, eccentric ways during their monthly meetings in London. And laughter was in short supply in his busy life.
‘I hope you like the house,’ Jane said a little nervously, parking her banana yellow Aston Martin on a small tarmac area beside the river. And more petulantly, ‘I just wish you’d checked it over first, before asking me to arrange for all your stuff to be moved in.’
‘No time free. Not with those back-to-back meetings in the States. I’m sure you’ve settled me in very well,’ he retorted crisply, leaping out and looking around for Tresanton Manor.
To his surprise, there was nothing to be seen but the placid river, some black duck things with white blobs on their foreheads, clumps of trees and bushes on a nearby island and stretches of unkempt fields. Apart from the rather piercing trill of birdsong the place seemed eerily quiet. The lack of traffic bothered him. It had implications.
‘So where is it?’ he demanded, feeling decidedly out of place in his sharply tailored business suit and fashionable purple shirt.
Jane teetered a little on her spindly heels, equally incongruous in her formal jacket and tight skirt. Tighter than usual, he suddenly realised. And…had she ever shown cleavage before? Help, he thought. Trouble ahead.
‘Er…the house is over the bridge.’ Meekly she indicated the narrow plank affair that led from the bank to the island.
Zach’s mouth fell open. He put a hand to his throbbing temple.
‘Over…?’ With difficulty he mastered his shock. ‘You’re not telling me that the house is on…an…island?’ he asked with cold incredulity.
