The Magnate's Mistress. Miranda Lee

      Miranda Lee

      THE MAGNATE’S MISTRESS

      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 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