The Heiress's 2-Week Affair. Marie Ferrarella

       “What are you doing here, Matt?”

      He avoided her eyes. He’d become good at lying, but he never could to her. “I told you—I wanted to bring you dinner.”

      Liar. “Is that the only reason you’re here?” she pressed. “To make sure I eat?”

      This time he did raise his eyes to hers. “That, and because I still like looking at you, Natalie. You are still one of the most beautiful creatures God ever created.”

      Wow…he sure did know how to press her buttons.

      “I can’t do this,” she told him suddenly.

      “Do what?”

      “I can’t sit here opposite you and pretend I don’t feel anything, that I don’t still -”

      He didn’t let her finish.

      Pushing his chair back, Matt was on his feet, sinking his hands into her hair, tilting her face up to his. Immobilising her lips by feverishly pressing his own against them in a kiss that set her body on fire.

       Available in October 2009 from Mills & Boon® Intrigue

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      Beneath the Badge by Rita Herron & Match Play by Merline Lovelace

      The Heiress’s 2-Week Affair by Marie Ferrarella

      Veiled Truth by Vivi Anna

      Tall, Dark and Lethal by Dana Marton

      Marie Ferrarella has written more than one hundred and fifty books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.

      THE HEIRESS’S 2-WEEK AFFAIR

      BY

      MARIE FERRARELLA

      

      

MILLS & BOON^®

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To

      Shana Smith. Welcome aboard.

       Prologue

      The burst of joy that bathed over her like warm summer rain when Natalie Rothchild opened her eyes began to recede as the reality of the situation slowly penetrated her consciousness.

      The spot beside her on the bed was empty.

      Empty and cool to the touch when she ran her fingers over it.

      “Matt?” She called out his name, but only the echo of her voice answered her. There was no sound of running water from the bathroom, no indication that there was anyone else in the hotel room but her.

      Her heart began hammering hard, so hard that it physically hurt her. It felt as if someone had shot arrows through it.

      He couldn’t have gone.

      But if he was here, where were his clothes? The ones that he’d torn off so carelessly last night, throwing them on the floor along with hers? The first time they’d made love last night, she’d all but caught on fire.

      The ache within her chest grew.

      “Matt?” she called out again. Fear and bewilderment filled her voice as she sat up. A chill ran down her spine. Something was wrong.

      Last night, he’d told her that he loved her, told her that they’d be together forever. He’d said he wanted to marry her. She knew he’d meant it. Knew it wasn’t just something expedient to say because he wanted to make love to her. He’d said it after, not before. After was when it carried weight.

      So where was he?

      And why did she have this awful, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, this uneasy sensation that something was very, very wrong?

      As Natalie shifted to swing her legs out of bed, she saw it. Just beneath his pillow—his pillow—there was a bit of paper peeking out.

      Natalie froze.

      She wanted to leave it there. To ignore it. Because the moment she acknowledged it was the moment she had to read it. And the moment she read it, she knew that the euphoric state she’d allowed herself to slip into would burst apart like a soap bubble that had floated on the breeze a second too long, done in by the very thing that had made it float.

      But she was Natalie Rothchild. Natalie, the sensible one. The one who faced her problems and life in general head on and fearlessly. Natalie, the rebel who refused to allow her family’s vast fortune to keep her from living a life of purpose.

      Matt told her that was one of the things he loved about her.

      He loved her.

      Didn’t he?

      Pressing her lips together, steeling herself, Natalie pulled the note out from beneath the pillow. She held it in her trembling hands and forced herself to read it.

      Her eyes clouded with tears, nearly blinding her before she finished.

      Balling up the paper, she threw it across the room and then buried her face against her raised knees. Her heart broken, Natalie did what she rarely did. She surrendered to despair.

      Quiet sobs filled the silence within the room.

      She was really alone.

       Chapter 1

      Excitement vibrated through Candace Rothchild’s veins.

      She could literally feel her adrenaline accelerating. Creating a rush. It was always this way when she stepped out in front of the cameras. Being the center of attention—even anticipating being the center of attention created a high that few drugs, legal or otherwise, could equal. Ever since she could remember, Candace thrived on the limelight, ate it up as if it was a source of energy for her.

      Unlike her twin sister, Natalie, whom she considered a dull, placid being with little imagination or flair, Candace positively bloomed when attention was thrown her way. The bigger, the better had always been her motto.

      To this end, she always made sure that she was picture perfect. She wore the latest fashions, had the kind of figure women would kill for and men remembered long after she had passed out of their lives. If, at times, that necessitated starving herself and spending outrageous amounts of money, well, so be it. It was all worth it. She wasn’t cut out for the tranquil, humdrum life. Which meant the role of doting mother, to sons she hardly knew and had less time for, wasn’t for her. The only plus from that end was that the tabloids were forever attempting to guess who had fathered them and if, indeed, it had been the same man in both cases.

      Beyond that, the children—Mick and David, named after her favorite singers—held no interest for her. Far more important was that there was always another premiere, another function, another occasion to be photographed and fawned over. At times, she would imagine average, desperate women hungrily devouring the tidbits of her life, fantasizing about the men she’d bedded, all in an effort to leave, however briefly, their own drab lives behind.

      She was doing a public service living this way, Candace told herself, a smirk twisting her ripe, collagen-full lips. She gave those poor, hopeless women something to dream about.

      Why, she was positively noble, if you gave it any