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“Mr. Dexter,” Caroline said coolly. “There is no point in my being here any longer.”
She continued. “My professional services weren’t needed in the first place, as far as I can see.”
“You’re right. But I have other needs, Caro, and you are going to satisfy every last one of them.” Ben gave her a slow, thoughtful look. “I suggest we stop pussyfooting around and start right now.”
“Now why would I agree to that?” Caroline queried, her heart thumping wildly.
“Because you owe me for twelve wasted years.”
“Judging by your impressive achievements, the last twelve years can hardly be called a waste.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Ben said. “I’ve had twelve years of wanting what most men want—a wife, a family. Of wanting a good long-term relationship and not being able to commit to any other woman because no one came close to what I remembered of you.”
She’s his in the bedroom,
but he can’t buy her love…
The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality
In
Harlequin Presents
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The Unexpected Mistress
by Sara Wood
Harlequin Presents (#2263)
The Billionaire Affair
Diana Hamilton
MILLS & BOON
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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 ONE
‘THE resemblance is quite remarkable, Caroline. You could have been the sitter—come here, take a look.’ Edward Weinberg’s slender, long-boned hands beckoned her and she put the guest list for the up-and-coming private viewing down on the beautiful, fastidiously uncluttered expanse of his desk and went to join him in front of the painting a uniformed porter had just brought up from the strongroom and placed on an easel.
Her employer’s remark regarding the likeness was irrelevant, but she was consumed with curiosity to at last see the masterpiece that Michael, Edward’s son, had acquired at a small, country-town auction a few months ago.
Carefully cleaned, painstakingly authenticated, the lost work by the pre-Raphaelite painter J. J. Lassoon had caused deep ripples of acquisitive excitement amongst the select band of collectors who could afford to pay serious money for the pleasure of owning a thing of covetable beauty.
Caroline had been in the north of England advising the new heir to one of the great houses on what he could dispose of, with the most profit and the least pain, to pay death duties, and had missed out on all the excitement.
‘Which will be the more important, the prestige or the profit?’ She glanced at Edward from black-fringed, deep violet eyes but his expression gave nothing away. He had the face of a mournful aesthete, his tall, elegant figure looked fragile enough to be bowled away by a puff of wind. But he was as tough as old boots. If she had been asked to put money on his true feelings she would have put prestige as his prime concern.
The London-based Weinberg Galleries had a fiercely guarded reputation for offering art and artifacts of the finest quality. The acquisition of the Lassoon painting could only add to his reputation.
‘I’ll leave you to ponder on that.’ Edward smiled as he turned away and Caroline gave her attention to the newly discovered masterpiece only to have her breath freeze in her lungs because he was right. The resemblance was remarkable. More than remarkable. It was uncanny.
Set against a riot of lush greenery, the artist’s model cupped a white lily in her curving hands and it was the very image of her, exactly as she had looked twelve years ago at the age of seventeen. The cloud of glossy black hair reaching almost to her waist, the youthful translucence of the milky skin, the thin patrician nose, the over-full rosy lips parted in a secret smile, the dreaming, drowning deep violet eyes. Dreaming of love, drowning in love.
Even the title was apt. First Love.
A shudder of bitter anger rippled down her spine. That was exactly how she had looked all those years ago when she had loved Ben Dexter with all her passionate being. So much love, she had thought she might die of it.
Yes, that was how she had looked before she had learned the truth, before he had turned his back on her and had walked away from their turbulent love affair, her father’s money in his pocket, more money than the boy from the wrong side of the tracks had ever seen in his life, his gypsy-black eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a bargain well struck, his whip-thin, virile body swaggering with heartless triumph.
She swung abruptly from the painting. She felt sick. She wished she had never set eyes on the wretched thing. It had brought back memories she’d buried deep in her psyche, memories she would have to struggle to inter again with even greater determination before the internal, unvented anger could do more real and lasting damage.
Edward’s
