Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure. India Grey

Her hair, brushed and tamed by dedicated professionals only a couple of hours ago, had since been swept by both wind and her own frantic fingers, and was now tumbling over her shoulders and around her face, giving her a slightly deranged appearance. Her eyes, expertly made up by a make-up artist, were huge and glittering with unfamiliar shadow in the ashen oval of her face. The dress only added to her appearance of a nineteenth-century waif on her way to the asylum.

      Ahead of her, Orlando hesitated in a doorway at the end of the dark hallway, tall, effortlessly elegant, with broad, straight shoulders and that aristocratic upward tilt of his head. She felt a sharp twist somewhere inside her as she glanced up at him.

      There was something about him that touched nerves in her that were too sensitive. Too sensual. And that terrified her.

      Courage…

      ‘This way.’

      The imposing entrance hall opened onto a smaller hallway from which the stairs rose in a graceful sweep around two walls. He had started to ascend, keeping close to the wall and brushing his fingers against the painted panelling as he went. Mesmerised, she watched, feeling her flesh tingle almost as if it could feel that feathery touch. At the top of the stairs he turned to the right, along a dark corridor. Rachel glanced around her, noticing the silk-shaded wall-lights at intervals on the emerald-green walls, wondering why he didn’t turn them on. At least the gloom inside allowed her to get a good view of what lay outside, and she paused to look out of one of the windows. It overlooked a courtyard whose walls were formed by the house, built in a square around it. The courtyard was divided into quarters by four dark, square flowerbeds in which nothing grew.

      He’d gone ahead, and she had to hurry to catch up, guided only by the echo of his footsteps on the polished oak floorboards. Even in her frozen mental state she was stunned by her surroundings. The house was astonishing.

      ‘In here,’ he said curtly, opening a door. Rachel followed him into a large room dominated by a huge marble fireplace and containing little more than a vast canopied bed upon which he threw her case.

      ‘You’d better get out of that dress.’

      The dusky afternoon threw deep shadows into the edges of the room. Instantly alarmed and on her guard, she let her gaze fly to his face questioningly. His expression was glacial.

      Seemingly oblivious to her distress he strode over to the windows and pulled the curtains shut, plunging the room into velvet blackness.

      Inside her chest, her heart hammered a frenzied tattoo.

      He couldn’t mean…? Was her mother right? Did all men just want to…like Carlos?

      She wrapped an arm around a thick wooden bedpost, half clinging to it, half shrinking behind it. Her mouth was dry, her stomach quivering with fear. She felt the air vibrate with his nearness as he passed her in the darkness, heard the soft rustle of his movements, and couldn’t quite smother her small whimper.

      Then the bedside light clicked on, bathing the room in a welcoming glow and illuminating for a second the hard angles of his face before he moved purposefully towards the door.

      ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

      She blinked, inhaling sharply in surprise. ‘No—Orlando! Wait!’

      He stood still. His broad shoulders filled the doorframe as he waited for her to continue, but her throat seemed suddenly to be full of sand. She looked helplessly at him, feeling her mouth open soundlessly for a second before the words came out in a dry croak.

      ‘I…I…need help. With the dress.’

      She saw him hesitate, then put a hand up to his head. ‘Jeez….’ It was something between an exhalation and a curse. And then he was coming back towards her, his face terrifyingly bleak.

      Shaking violently, she turned, offering her back to him and bending her head forward so he could reach the top of the zip. She waited, feeling the goosebumps rise on the back of her neck as she anticipated his touch.

      It seemed to take an eternity, during which she felt the tension building inside her like water coming to the boil. At last his long fingers brushed the hair off the nape of her neck and skimmed over the sensitised skin of her shoulders, leaving a shivering trail of sensation in their wake. He found the zip, tugged it halfway down, then stepped away, leaving her clinging to the carved bedpost as he wordlessly left the room.

      She closed her eyes, desperately wanting to feel some sense of relief, and had to bite her lip against the wave of desolation and longing that washed over her instead.

      She’d thought she’d be afraid of his touch, but that was because she was so used to being frightened she almost expected it. But this was something quite different. Something she’d thought she was incapable of experiencing, which had been unfurling inside her since he’d first held her against him in the churchyard.

      With a thud of shock and a rush of liquid heat she realised the sensation that was quickening her pulse and filling her limbs with honeyed warmth was not fear.

      It was arousal.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ORLANDO slammed a couple of peppers down onto the marble slab in the kitchen, took a knife from the block, and then reached to switch on the powerful spotlights that were angled down onto the worktop.

      The bright light made him flinch.

      He frowned, a muscle flickering in his jaw as he balanced the knife in one hand and held a pepper in the other. For a second he hesitated, steadying himself, before he began slicing with swift, savage strokes.

      He had made a deliberate decision to accustom himself to the darkness that was fast closing in on him while he still had some sight left. He used artificial light as little as possible, but the kitchen was one place where he could not yet afford to let his fingers take the place of his eyes. His determination to maintain his independence meant that it was vital for him to be able to do as much as possible for himself—without asking for help or admitting weakness. Cooking had been of no interest to him in his old life—Arabella had seen to all of that with flawless competence—but a lot had changed in a year.

      Not having to cook was one thing. Not being able to was quite another.

      It was easy, he thought brutally, to lock himself up here alone and kid himself that he was doing OK. Managing. So easy to believe he was the person he’d always been when there was no one here to fool.

      The arrival of this girl had made him see how mistaken he was.

      Upstairs earlier…when she had asked him to unfasten her dress. That was the moment he had been forced to admit that the Orlando Winterton of a year ago was as dead and gone as his brother.

      The old Orlando Winterton had been a master in the art of undressing women. The smooth, effortless removal of every kind of feminine garment was something he had excelled at, like everything else. But upstairs just then he had been assailed by panic as his mind had conjured tormenting images of tiny buttons, delicate hooks, and he had opened his mouth to tell her he couldn’t possibly do it. The words hadn’t come. He’d been afraid to tell her. Unable to deal with sensing her recoil, as Arabella had.

      He swore with quiet venom.

      So, yes, he might be managing. He might be maintaining some semblance of a normal and independent life. But it wasn’t of any kind normality he recognised.

      ‘Hi.’

      She spoke quietly, but, momentarily distracted, Orlando felt the knife slip slightly and cursed again under his breath.

      ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

      ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

      Orlando felt anger rising inside him like acrid smoke.

      It’s a bit late for that.

      Hesitantly she came a little further into the room, and he could see that she had changed into something dark—the same sweater