“It might be interesting to get to know each other again.”
Esme continued to stare at him. “I can’t think what else there is to know,” she responded at length. “You’re Jack Doyle, Internet entrepreneur and new owner of Highfield. I’m Esme Hamilton, single mother of one and ex-cleaner of your mansion. Do you think we have any common ground?”
“Is it Highfield?” he asked bluntly. “Is that the problem? You can’t bear for me, the cook’s son, to have it?”
Esme’s eyes widened at the slant he’d put on things. The animosity she felt was unconnected to house deeds and family origins.
“A little tip for the future, though. If you really don’t like a man, it’s best not to make those little moaning sounds when he’s kissing you. Might give him the whole wrong idea.”
She’s his in the bedroom,
but he can’t buy her love…
The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality
in Harlequin Presents®
Live the dream with more
Mistress to a Millionaire titles by your favorite authors
The Unexpected Mistress
by passionate, intense author Sara Wood! Harlequin Presents (#2263)
The Mother and the Millionaire
Alison Fraser
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS one of those life-changing moments. For Esme, anyway. She opened the door and there he was. Not so different. Older, of course. Better-dressed, too, in dark suit and silk tie. But essentially the same.
‘Midge?’ He half smiled, uncertain whether it was her.
She didn’t smile back. She was sick with shock. It was as if he’d just risen from the dead.
‘Jack Doyle.’ He identified himself.
Quite unnecessary. A towering six feet two, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with razor-sharp cheekbones and a wicked smile, he wasn’t easy to forget.
She struggled to collect her thoughts, only to find herself stammering. ‘I—I—I…’
All her hard-won composure out of the window. A decade’s worth. Back to the gawky teenager, cursed with puppy fat and the awful nickname Midge.
Speech proved impossible. Just as well or she might have said, Go away. I have a life now.
And he wouldn’t have understood.
He took advantage of her silence to do an inventory. Heavy-lidded grey eyes travelled from her coiled blonde hair and fine-boned face to her slim figure in an A-line dress, and back again.
‘Who would have thought it—little Midge all grown up?’ His voice was teasing rather than mocking.
Midge knew that—no, Esme; that was her name—knew that, but it didn’t help. Still, it rescued her from incoherence.
‘No one calls me that now.’ She finally spoke and, looking down her nose, added, ‘May I help you?’
Polite veneer barely masking condescension.
He got it, of course. She’d expected him to. Doyle had always been quick on the uptake. Brilliantly so apart from when it concerned her sister, Arabella.
‘Scary,’ he commented.
‘What?’ she demanded, unable to help herself.
He shook his head but a smile played on his mouth. He was laughing at something.
She remembered that of old, too. Jack Doyle watching her family as if they were interesting curiosities, unable to comment because of their respective positions, but commenting all the same with the curve of his lips or the lift of a brow.
‘You haven’t changed!’ she accused.
‘You have,’ he accused in return. ‘Very lady of the manor.’
Esme glowered but was unable to argue, considering she had just borrowed her mother’s airs and graces to try and put him down. Unsuccessfully.
‘Better than being mannerless,’ she threw back at length.
He looked surprised, as well he might. He might have been the cook’s son, educated at the local county school, but Jack Doyle had always known how to behave.
His eyes narrowed slightly before he responded, ‘Well, you’ll know how that feels soon. Being manorless yourselves, I mean.’
So he’d heard. The manor was to be sold.
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘No.’
She hadn’t thought so. More a cruel remark. That surprised her. She didn’t remember that side of him.
‘Is your mother about?’ he added. ‘Her ladyship, should I say?’
‘No, actually you shouldn’t,’ she corrected. ‘My mother remarried.’
‘Of course,’ he concluded, ‘and presumably lost the title. Poor old Rosie. That must have been traumatic for her.’
It had been. In fact, her mother, Rosalind—who had never allowed anyone to call her Rosie in her life—had been very slow to take a second walk up the aisle. Only an ultimatum from her new husband had forced the issue.
‘Is she around?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Arabella?’ he added casually.
But Esme wasn’t fooled. Jack Doyle
