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‘It’s not going to work, Clementine. Save your seduction routines for someone else. I’m not interested.’
Clem let out an incredulous snort. ‘You think I’m trying to seduce you? You? Don’t make me laugh.’
Alistair opened the hotel suite door, impatience, frustration, irritation etched in every muscle of his face. ‘We’re wasting valuable time. Out.’
She hitched up her chin. ‘You can’t order me about like I’m some sort of serf. I’ll walk out that door when I’m good and ready.’
His eyes hardened to chips of grey-blue ice.
‘If you don’t walk out this door on the count of three then—’
‘Then what?’ Clem leaned up close, placing her hands on the steely frame of his chest, where she could feel his heart pounding. Boom. Pitty. Boom. Pitty. Boom.
His eyes darkened until they were more pupils than irises. His hands encircled her wrists, the fingers digging into her flesh in searing hot fingerprints that made her blood race. It made his blood race too, for she could feel the tension in his lower body where it was touching hers thigh to thigh.
‘Then this,’ he said, and crushed his mouth to hers.
An avid romance reader, MELANIE MILBURNE loves writing the kind of books that gave her so much joy as she was busy getting married to her own hero and raising a family. Now a USA TODAY bestselling author, she has won several awards—including the Australian Romance Readers Association’s most popular category/series romance in 2008 and the prestigious Romance Writers of Australia Ruby Award in 2011. She loves to hear from readers via her website, melaniemilburne.com.au, or on Facebook (Facebook.com/melanie.milburne) and Twitter: @melaniemilburn1.
His Mistress for a Week
Melanie Milburne
To Amelia Catherine Limbert.
I hope you enjoy this book specially dedicated to you! Thank you for being such a loyal fan.
Contents
CLEMENTINE WAS ON her hands and knees and covered in dust motes and mouse droppings when he came into the shop. She knew it was a ‘he’ because years of listening to her mother’s dodgy boyfriends coming and going at night had turned her into an expert on footfalls. There was a lot you could tell about a person by the way they walked. Whether they were confident or shy, furtive or open. Friend or foe.
This man had a firm, purposeful tread. A don’t-get-in-my-way-I-mean-business tread that made the hairs on the back of Clem’s neck stand up on tiptoe and shiver. She had heard that tread before. Ten years before.
He won’t recognise you. You’ve changed so much. The self-talk didn’t help because Clem knew that, even though she had shed the weight, got control of her skin, and tamed and highlighted her hair, inside she was still that mousy-haired, clumsy, awkward and pimply sixteen-year-old blimp.
The one with the home-wrecking, trailer trash mother.
Clem got to her feet and dusted her hands on her black trousers. ‘How may I help you?’ She had got rid of the northern accent as well. But not the attitude. Or the chip on her shoulder. Well, maybe not so much a chip. More like a tree. A forest.
Alistair Hawthorne looked down at her. But that was nothing new. He had always looked down at her, both literally and figuratively. He was six-foot-four to her five-foot-six so looking down was his only option unless she wore vertiginous heels. Or stilts. Not exactly the sort of thing Clem wanted to wear while going up and down a bookshelf ladder in search of a rare edition of Dickens or Hardy or Austen.
Come to think of it, stilts could work...
‘Where’s your brother?’
As opening gambits went, it wasn’t flash. Or friendly. Not that Clem had been expecting friendly. Not after the Bedroom Incident. Looking back, it had been a dumb move to hide there after coming back from that humiliating party date. But the room Alistair had used as a child had been the only quiet space in the house and it had its own bathroom no one else used. The perfect place to lick wounds still raw with shame. A place to curl up in the foetal position and self-flagellate for being so gullible as to fall for a teenage boy’s puerile dare to ‘sleep with the fat chick’.
