The Rich Man's Royal Mistress. Robyn Donald

took a deep breath and got to her feet. ‘You don’t have to pull them. Look, there’s a button by the door—press it and they’ll close automatically.’

      Before she could get there he’d found the button and the drapes swept across the windows, obliterating the lake and the mountains, cocooning the room in warmth and an intimacy that suddenly seemed much too intense.

      Melissa came to an uncertain halt, wishing for the thousandth time that she had more poise, yet feeling alive in a way she’d never experienced before. Poised on a knife-edge of stimulation, she felt as though the last half-hour had altered her in some fundamental way.

      Rubbish, she told herself sternly. It’s infatuation, just like the monumental crush you had on that French pop star—hormone-driven and mindless.

      Her mouth twisted wryly. For a birthday treat, her brother, Marco, had organised a meeting with that singer. Talk about instant disillusion!

      He’d been six inches shorter than she was, and resented every inch of that difference. Awed and worshipful, she’d barely been able to articulate, but the mockery in his eyes had stung. The only reason he’d been polite was that Marco owned a massive number of shares in the huge musical empire that held his contract.

      Then he’d sworn at a fan who’d approached with an autograph book. And later that evening Melissa had overheard him describe her to a friend.

      ‘A giraffe with no style,’ he’d said scornfully. ‘But one has to be polite to the rich men—and their clumsy sisters!’

      OK, so she could smile now, but at the time she had been cut to the quick.

      This had to be the same sort of temporary reaction. Perhaps she should have expected it; she was a late developer. Most of her friends had already moved on from their first affairs to embark on other, hopefully more satisfying relationships, while she’d been far too cautious to allow anyone close to her. Her mother had warned her against fortune hunters prepared to overlook her height and lack of beauty for the lure of access to her brothers.

      She had enough self-esteem to make sure that didn’t happen! But the fact that she’d never fallen in love was because she’d never met anyone who reached her brothers’ standards.

      Now she wondered if she had.

      ‘Come and eat,’ Hawke said smoothly.

      He put her into her chair, and served a superb soup made from green peas and lettuce.

      Melissa picked up her spoon and said, ‘The chef will be pleased you ordered this—it’s one of his specialities, and he says most New Zealanders refuse to eat cooked lettuce.’

      ‘I’m afraid I followed my own inclination when I ordered; I knew I’d be hungry after a day on the mountain, so I made sure of a solid, sustaining meal.’

      When Melissa smiled a small dimple winked into existence beside her mouth, calling attention to her lips. Sheened by a sheer film of colour into pure sensuousness, each small smile sent reckless impulses through Hawke.

      He defied any man to look at that mouth and not imagine just what it would feel like on his body. His reacted to the thought with violent appreciation not unmixed with a dangerous craving.

      Possibly she’d noticed, because the dimple disappeared. She said primly, ‘The lodge specialises in hearty meals because so many of the guests spend their days on the mountains or fishing the river. But because they often bring their wives, it also caters for the appetites of those who decide to spend the day in the spa.’

      The soup was delicious, as he’d expected, but although it disappeared from his plate he barely tasted it; he was too busy enjoying the open, delicate greed with which she demolished hers. Did that frank appetite denote an equal enjoyment of sex?

      Hawke reined in his enthusiastic body. She had an untouched air; with two heavyweight brothers he suspected that any suitor had been met with an intensive grilling that would put off all but the most determined. Even during the fuss last year when Gabe Considine’s broken engagement had occupied the front pages of every tabloid in the world, little had been printed about her.

      So—no lovers?

      A heated pleasure caught him by surprise. Last night he’d detected a latent sensuality, an aura of unrealised—and possibly unsuspected—passion in her.

      Pity he wasn’t going to be the one to tap into it.

      He said casually, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’

      ‘I leave at the end of the week.’

      ‘Snap. I’m staying until then too.’

      Melissa’s heart jolted, and the knot of anticipation in her stomach tightened. Was that a decision he’d just made?

      It was probably part of his charm to keep his full focus on his dinner partner, but Melissa found it intoxicating. Her confidence flowered, spiced by sharp awareness and his interest. She drank very little of the superb Riesling he poured to accompany the next course, a meatloaf surprisingly redolent of Asian flavours and scents, but excitement burned through every cell in her body.

      Candlelight flickered lovingly over his bronze face as he leaned back in his chair and surveyed her with an ironic quirk of his brows. ‘So where do you want to be in five years?’

      She laughed. ‘Probably working in some hotel chain to get the practical knowledge I’ll need to make a success of Gabe’s vision.’

      ‘Aim high,’ he advised. ‘You should be at executive level by then, or managing your own tourist venture in Illyria. And I thought it was your vision, not your brothers’?’

      Without hesitation she said, ‘It was my idea. I don’t think Gabe is quite sure I’ll make it happen, but I will.’

      Yes, she would, he thought, noting the determined angle to her jaw. ‘Would you have thought of making a career in that field if it hadn’t been for Illyria?’

      She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We were brought up to believe that it was our duty to help the principality in any way we could. My father never forgave himself for being out of Illyria when the prince was overthrown; all his life he did what he could for his country and his people.’

      Did that include marrying a half-French, half-American heiress, Hawke wondered cynically, to keep him in the style to which he’d been accustomed? Not that it had been an ideal match; although there had never been any prospect of divorce, it was fairly common knowledge that her mother had indulged herself with a string of lovers.

      He watched Melissa sip the wine, and that disturbing, rash attraction geared up another notch. She’d been brought up in a milieu where both parents had pragmatically made the best of an unsatisfactory marriage, staying together while seeking what private happiness they could in discreet affairs.

      Did Melissa have the same outlook?

      She looked up and caught him scrutinising her. Colour burned along her cheekbones and her tawny-gold eyes darkened. A hot satisfaction took him by surprise as he watched the muscles in her slender throat quiver.

      When he looked at her with those half-closed green eyes and an enigmatic smile, Melissa’s mind shut down. Summoning her best imitation of her mother’s social manner, she asked, ‘Did you grow up in this area of New Zealand?’

      ‘No,’ he said, and the iron control was back like a slap in the face. ‘I come from north of Auckland.’

      Determinedly Melissa asked questions about the country’s northernmost area, slowly relaxing while they picked up the strands of conversation.

      By the end of the evening those oddly tense moments had been smoothed over, although Melissa knew she wasn’t ever going to forget them. He fascinated her, his incisive intelligence stimulating her into a conversation that almost—but not quite—blotted out her overwhelming physical response to his formidable, almost arrogant male authority.

      But she took