Loe raamatut: «It Started With One Night»
MIRANDA LEE is Australian, and lives near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boarding-school educated, and briefly pursued a career in classical music before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.
It Started with One Night
The Magnate’s Mistress
His Bride for One Night
Master of Her Virtue
Miranda Lee
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
The Magnate’s Mistress
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
His Bride for One Night
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 FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Master of Her Virtue
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 FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Copyright
The Magnate’s Mistress
Miranda Lee
CHAPTER ONE
THE beep-beep which signalled an incoming text message had Tara dropping her book and diving for her cellphone.
Max! It had to be Max. He was the only person who text-messaged her these days.
Arriving Mascot at 1530, she read with her heart already thudding. QF310. Can you pick me up? Let me know.
A glance at her bedside clock said five to twelve. If his plane was to arrive at three-thirty this afternoon, Max had to be already in the air.
She immediately texted him back.
Will be there.
She smiled wryly at the brevity and lack of sentiment in both their messages. There was no I can’t wait to see you, darling. No I’ve missed you terribly. All very matter-of-fact.
Max was a matter-of-fact kind of man. Mostly.
Not quite so matter-of-fact in bed. A quiver rippled down Tara’s spine at the image of Max in the throes of making love to her.
No. Not at all matter-of-fact on those occasions.
Tara glanced at the clock again. Nearly noon.
Not a lot of time for her to get ready, catch a train into town, collect Max’s car and drive out to the airport. She would have to hurry.
Jumping up from the bed reminded Tara of why she’d been lying back down at this late hour on a Saturday morning. A new wave of nausea rolled through her and she just made it to the bathroom in time before retching.
Darn. Why did she have to have a tummy bug today of all days? It had been almost a month since she’d seen Max, the current crisis in the travel industry having kept him on the hop overseas for ages. Hong Kong had been one of the cities worst affected. When she’d complained during his last phone call two nights ago that she’d forget what he looked like soon, Max had promised to see what he could do this weekend. He was flying to Auckland on the Friday for an important business meeting and might have time to duck over to Sydney on the weekend before returning to Hong Kong.
But Tara hadn’t seriously expected anything. She never liked to get her hopes up too much. It was too depressing when she was disappointed. Still, maybe Max was finally missing her as much as she was missing him.
Which was why the last thing she needed today was to feel sick. She might only have the one night with him this time and she wanted to make the most of it. But it would be hard to enjoy his company if she felt like chucking up all the time.
A sigh reverberated through her as she flushed the toilet.
‘Are you all right in there?’ her mother called through the bathroom door.
‘I’m fine,’ Tara lied, experience warning her not to say anything. Her mother would fuss. Tara disliked being fussed over. No doubt she was only suffering from the same twenty-four-hour gastric bug which was going through Sydney’s western suburbs like wildfire. Her sister’s family had had it this past week, and she’d been over there last weekend for a family barbeque.
Actually, now that she’d been sick, Tara felt considerably better. A shower would make her feel even better, she reasoned, and turned on the spray.
Her arrival in the kitchen an hour later with freshly blow-dried hair, a perfectly made-up face and a new outfit on had her mother giving her a narrow-eyed once-over.
‘I see his lord and master must be arriving for one of his increasingly fleeting visits,’ Joyce said tartly, then went back to whatever cake she was making.
Saturday was Joyce Bond’s baking day; had been for as long as Tara could remember. Such rigid routines grated on Tara’s more spontaneous nature. She often wished that her mother would surprise her by doing something different on a Saturday for once. She also wished she would surprise her with a different attitude towards Max.
‘Mum, please don’t,’ Tara said wearily, and popped a slice of bread into the toaster. Her stomach had settled enough for her to handle some Vegemite toast, but she still wasn’t feeling wonderful.
Joyce spun round from the kitchen counter to glower at her daughter. Her impossibly beautiful daughter.
Tara had inherited the best of each of her parents. She had her father’s height, his lovely blond hair, clear skin, good teeth and striking green eyes. Joyce had contributed a cute nose, full lips and an even fuller bust, which looked infinitely better on Tara than it ever had on her own less tall, short-waisted body.
Joyce hadn’t been surprised when one of the wealthy men who patronised the exclusive jewellery boutique where Tara worked had made a beeline for her. She wasn’t surprised—or even too worried—when Tara confessed that she was no longer a virgin. Joyce had always thought it a minor miracle that a girl with Tara’s looks had reached twenty-four without having slept with a man. After all, her daughter’s many boyfriends must have tried to get the girl into bed.
Tara had always claimed she was waiting for Prince Charming to come along. Joyce’s younger daughter was somewhat of an idealist, a full-on romantic. An avid reader, she was addicted to novels which featured wonderful heroes and happy-ever-after endings.
In the beginning, Joyce had hoped that Max Richmond was her daughter’s Prince Charming. He had most of the attributes. Wealth. Good looks. Youth. Relative youth, anyway. He’d been thirty-five when they’d begun seeing each other.
But in the last twelve months Joyce had come to feel differently about her daughter’s relationship with the handsome hotel magnate. It had finally become clear that Max Richmond was never going to marry his lovely young mistress.
For that was what Tara had swiftly become. Not a proper girlfriend, or a partner, as people sometimes called their loved ones these days. A mistress, expected to be there when he called and be silent when he left. Expected to give everything and receive nothing in return, except for the corrupting gifts rich men invariably gave to their mistresses.
Designer clothes. Jewellery. Perfume. Flowers.
A fresh bouquet of red roses was delivered every week when Max was away. But who ordered them? Joyce often wondered. The man himself, or his secretary?
If Tara had been the kind of good-time girl who could handle such a relationship, Joyce would have held her tongue. But Tara was nothing of the kind. Underneath her sophisticated and sexy-looking exterior lay a soft, sensitive soul. A good girl. When Max Richmond eventually dumped her, she was going to be shattered.
Joyce’s thoughts had fired a slow-burning fury, along with her tongue.
‘Don’t what?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t tell it like it is? I’m not going to sit by silently and say nothing, Tara. I love you too much for that. You’re wasting your life on that man. He will never give you what you really want. He’s just using you.’
Tara refrained from reminding her mother how often she’d been told in this house that she didn’t know what she wanted in life. Joyce had frowned over her daughter not using her arts degree to get a job in Sydney. Instead, a restless Tara had gone tripping off to Japan to teach English for two years, at the same time using the opportunity to see as much of Asia as she could. When she’d returned to Sydney eighteen months ago her mother had expected her to look for a teaching position here. Instead, she’d taken a job as a shop assistant at Whitmore Opals, till she decided what she wanted to do next. Her announcement recently that she was going back to university next year to study psychology had been met with rolling eyes, as if to say, there she goes again.
In a way, her mother was right. She didn’t know what she wanted to be, career-wise, the way some people did. But she knew what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to be tied down at home with children the way Jen was. And she didn’t want to bake cakes every single Saturday.
‘So what is it that you think I really want, Mum?’ she asked, rather curious to find out what secret observation her mother had made.
‘Why, what most women want deep down. A home, and a family. And a husband, of course.’
Tara shook her head. Given that her mother was rising sixty, she supposed there were excuses for holding such an old-fashioned viewpoint.
But the bit about a husband was rather ironic, considering her mother’s personal background. Joyce had been widowed for over twenty years, Tara’s electrician father having been killed in a work accident when Tara was just three. Her mother had raised her two daughters virtually single-handed. She’d worked hard to provide for them. She’d scrimped and saved and even bought her own house. Admittedly, it was not a flash house. But it was a house. And, she’d never married again. In fact, there’d never been another man in her life after Tara’s father.
‘It may come as a surprise to you, Mum,’ Tara said as she removed the popped-up toast, ‘but I don’t want any of that. Not yet, anyway. I’m only twenty-four. There are plenty of years ahead for me to settle down to marriage and motherhood. I like my life the way it is. I’m looking forward to going back to uni next year. Meanwhile, I have an interesting job, some good friends and a fabulous lover.’
‘Whom you rarely see. As for your supposed good friends, name one you’ve been out with in the last six months!’
Tara couldn’t.
‘See what I mean?’ her mother went on accusingly. ‘You never go out with your old friends any more because you’re compelled to keep your weekends free, in case his lord and master deigns to drop in on your life. For pity’s sake, Tara, do you honestly think your jet-setting lover is spending every weekend of his alone when he doesn’t come home?’
Joyce regretted the harsh words the moment she saw her daughter’s face go a sickly shade of grey.
Tara gripped the kitchen counter and willed the bile in her throat to go back down. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mum. Max would never do that.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ Joyce said, but more softly this time. ‘He doesn’t love you, Tara. Not the way you love him.’
‘Yes, he does. And even if he didn’t, I’d still want him.’
Oh, yes, that was one thing she was sure about.
‘I won’t give him up for anything, or anyone,’ she announced fiercely, and took a savage bite of toast.
‘He’s going to break your heart.’
Tara’s heart contracted. Would he? She couldn’t imagine it. Not her Max. Not deliberately. He wasn’t like that. Her mother didn’t understand. Max just didn’t want marriage at this time in his life. Or kids. He’d explained all that to her right from the beginning. He’d told her up front that his life was too busy for a wife and a family. Since his father had been incapacitated by a stroke, the full responsibility of running the family firm had fallen on him. Looking after a huge chain of international hotels was a massive job, especially with the present precarious state of tourism and travel. Max spent more than half his life on a plane. All he could promise her for now was the occasional weekend.
He’d given her the opportunity to tell him to get lost, before she got in any deeper. But of course that had been after he’d taken her to bed and shown her a world she’d never envisaged, a world of incredible pleasure.
How could you give up perfection, just because everything wasn’t perfect?
Tara threw the rest of her toast in the bin under the sink, then straightened with a sigh. ‘If you disapprove of my relationship with Max this much, Mum,’ she said unhappily, ‘perhaps it’s time I moved out of home.’
She could well afford to rent a place of her own on her salary. Her pay as a shop assistant at Whitmore Opals was boosted by generous commission each month. She was their top salesgirl, due to her natural affinity for people and her ability to speak fluent Japanese. A lot of the shop’s customers were wealthy Japanese visitors and businessmen who appreciated being served by a pretty Australian girl who spoke their language like a native.
‘And go where?’ her mother threw back at her. ‘To your lover’s penthouse? He won’t like that. You’re only welcome there when he’s there.’
‘You don’t know that. There again, you don’t know Max. How could you? You never say more than two words to him on the phone and you’ve never invited him here.’
‘He wouldn’t want to come here,’ she grumbled. ‘This house isn’t fancy enough for a man who lives on the top floor of Sydney’s plushest hotel, and whose family owns a waterfront mansion on Point Piper. Which, might I point out, he’s not taken you to, not even over Christmas? Have you noticed that, Tara? You’re not good enough to be taken home to meet his parents. You’re to be kept a dirty little secret. That’s what you are, Tara. A kept woman.’
Tara had had enough of this. ‘Firstly, there is nothing dirty about my relationship with Max. We love each other and he treats me like a princess. Secondly, Max does not keep me a dirty little secret. We often go out together in public, as you very well know. You used to show your friends the photographs in the paper. Quite proudly, if I recall.’
‘That was when I thought something would come of your relationship. When I thought he would marry you. But there have been no photographs in the paper lately, I’ve noticed. Maybe because he doesn’t have time to take you out any more. But I’ll bet he still has time to take you to bed!’
Tara clenched her jaw hard lest she say something she would later regret. She loved her mother dearly. And she supposed she could understand why the woman worried about her and Max. But modern life was very complicated when it came to personal relationships. Things weren’t as cut and dried as they had been in Joyce’s day.
Still, it was definitely time to find somewhere else to live. Tara could not bear to have to defend herself and Max all the time. It would sour her relationship with her mother.
She could see now that she should not have come back home to live after her return from Tokyo. Her two years away had cut the apron strings and she should have left them cut. But when her mother had met her at the airport on her return, Tara didn’t have the heart to dash Joyce’s presumption that her daughter was back to stay with her. And frankly, it had been rather nice to come home to her old bedroom and her old things. And to her mother’s cooking.
But that had been several months before she’d met Max and fallen head over heels in love.
Things were different now.
Still, if she moved out of home, her mother was going to be very lonely. She often said how much she enjoyed Tara’s company. Tara’s board money helped make life easier for Joyce as well. Her widow’s pension didn’t stretch all that far.
Guilt screamed in to add to Tara’s distress.
Oh, dear. What was a daughter to do?
She would talk to Max about the situation, and see what he said. Max had a wonderful way of making things seem clear and straightforward. Solutions to problems were Max’s stock-in-trade. As were decisions. He spent most of his life solving problems and making decisions.
Max was a very decisive man. A little inflexible, however, Tara conceded. And opinionated. And unforgiving.
Very unforgiving, actually.
‘Look, Mum, there are reasons why Max hasn’t taken me home to meet his parents,’ she started explaining to her mother. ‘It has nothing to do with our working class background. His own father was born working-class, but he…’ Tara broke off abruptly before she revealed things told to her in strict confidence. Max would not appreciate her blurting out the skeletons in his family’s closet, even to her mother. ‘Let’s leave all this for now,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I don’t feel up to arguing with you over Max today.’
The moment she added those last words, Tara regretted them, for her mother’s eyes instantly turned from angry to worried. Her mother was a chronic worrier when it came to matters of health.
‘I thought I heard you being sick earlier,’ Joyce said.
‘It’s nothing. Just a tummy bug. Probably the same thing Jen and her kids had. I’m feeling better now.’
‘Are you sure that’s what it is?’ her mother asked, still looking concerned.
‘Well, I don’t think I’m dying of some dreaded disease,’ Tara said. ‘Truly, Mum, you have to stop looking up those health websites on the internet. You’re becoming a hypochondriac.’
‘I meant,’ her mother bit out, ‘do you think you could be pregnant?’
‘Pregnant!’ Tara was totally taken aback. Dear heaven. Mothers! Truly. ‘No, Mum, I am definitely not pregnant.’ She’d had a period during the weeks Max had been away, which meant if she was pregnant, it had been because of an immaculate conception!
Besides, if there was one thing Tara was fanatical about, it was birth control. The last thing she wanted at this time in her life was a baby. Max wasn’t the only one.
When they’d first become lovers, Max had said he’d use condoms. But after one broke one night last year and they’d spent an anxious two weeks, Tara had taken over the job of preventing a pregnancy. She even had her cellphone programmed so that it beeped at the same time every day, a reminder to take her pill. Six pm on the dot. She also kept a spare box of pills in Max’s bathroom, in case she accidentally left hers at home.
Her mother’s tendency to always expect the worst to happen in life had trained Tara to be an expert in preventative action.
‘There is no sure form of contraception,’ Joyce pointed out firmly. ‘Except saying no.’
Tara refrained from telling her mother that saying no to Max would never be on her agenda.
‘I have to get going,’ she said. ‘The next train for the city is due in ten minutes.’
‘When will you be back?’ her mother called after her as she hurried from the kitchen. ‘Or don’t you know?’
It hit home. That last remark. Because Tara didn’t know. She never seemed to know these days. In that, her mother was right. Max came and went like a whirlwind, often without much information or explanation. He expected her to understand how busy he was at the moment. Which she did on the whole. Didn’t she?
‘I’ll let you know, Mum,’ Tara called back as she scooped up her carry-all and swept out the door. ‘Bye.’
