Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress. Robyn Grady

      She turned off the fuel. ‘It’s a large block. If you insist I do this, I’ll use a ride-on.’

      A few moments later, another engine was growling, a monster this time. A ride-on? This model was more like a tractor.

      She found some gardening gloves and wriggled her French tips into each slot while he plonked his Akubra on her head. ‘You’ll need this. It’s getting hot.’

      Her chin tilted and she peered at him from beneath the overly large brim. ‘Thanks.’ Her tone said she wasn’t sure she meant it.

      After she’d pulled herself up behind the wheel, he hauled up behind her.

      She rotated around, then ducked as his leg swung over her head. ‘What the hell are you doing?

      He squeezed down behind her on the adequate seat, tandem style. Nice fit. Nice perfume too. Light and flowery with a hint of a bite. Suited Miz Prince to a sassy tee.

      ‘I told you last night. If we’re doing this, I’ll need to be your shadow.’

      As if he had rabies, she shunted closer to the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps you need a drink first. How’s ice tea?’

      ‘I prefer something hot in the morning.’

      She turned fully around and sent him a warning glare from way beneath that Akubra brim. ‘You won’t scare me off.’

      Well, hopefully not too soon.

      He waved his hand at the steering wheel. ‘Then I suggest you drive.’

      Determination filled her eyes. She released the handbrake and planted her foot. The machine lurched forward and her hat flew in his face. Then she yanked the wheel, the tractor arced to the left and Ben fell sideways, barely managing to stay on.

      Righting himself, he jammed the hat back on her head and, setting his hands on her hips, drove her rump back hard against his inner leg seams. She’d given him reason to hang on and her backside was the quintessential grip.

      She slammed on the brake and scrambled off. When she threw the hat on the ground, he saw her face was flushed. ‘I’m not doing this.’

      He shrugged. ‘You set the agenda.’

      Talking him into this crazy plan, choosing this tractor, then trying to tip him off.

      ‘You—you—’ She bit her lip. Averting her gaze, she got her breath and maybe counted to three before she pinned him down again. ‘You’re not playing fair.’

      ‘This isn’t about what’s fair. I’m doing what I need to do to ensure the welfare of a future investment.’ And, in due course, set you on your merry way.

      Her gaze zigzagged over his face as if trying to find a way in, or out. Then, with her mouth set, she pulled herself up on the ride-on again.

      For the next hour they rode that baby in a diagonal pattern back and forth over the massive square of lawn. The vibration worked up his legs, rippling through every bone in his body. It should’ve been entirely non-sexual, but for her sweet behind planted before him…shifting, shaking, rubbing, until he gripped the seat either side and prayed for the torture to end. By the time they returned to the shed and she dismounted, his pants were on fire.

      She grabbed the brim of his hat, flung it like a frisbee and set her hands on her hips. ‘Satisfied?’

      He groaned. Not quite.

      He edged off the opposite side and held off rearranging himself. ‘Well done,’ he croaked.

      ‘So, what’s next on your agenda?’

      ‘How about a long cold drink?’ He turned to face her.

      She looked half pleased. ‘Possibly something with ice?’

      He frowned. ‘A man is not a camel, Miss Prince.’ Nor was he a block of wood…well, not literally. At this precise moment, he was a desperately aroused animal who was a second away from showing her just how aroused he was.

      Forcing his testosterone-driven brain to visualise a bleak snowy landscape—no valleys, no peaks—he headed towards the house, sensing the dogs padding behind him. When he slowed down, she caught up, but he steered the conversation towards a safe topic.

      ‘How long have you had the dogs?’

      ‘Matilda and Clancy were from the same litter. We got them…’ Her words faded before she finished the sentence. ‘Dad got them about fifteen years ago.’

      He calculated. ‘You would’ve been—’

      ‘Ten,’ she said, keeping her eyes dead ahead. ‘Same year my mother passed away.’

      His chest tightened, but his step didn’t falter. Although, of course, he was ‘sorry for her loss’, in his opinion, that kind of phrase rarely sounded sincere. In her place, he wouldn’t want to hear it. They didn’t know each other well enough to ask about the circumstances. Instead he clicked his fingers and both dogs pranced up. Smiling, he brushed a palm over one wet nose, then the other. ‘They act like pups.’

      She swept her hair back in a temporary ponytail off her neck. ‘They’ll go and sleep under a tree half the day now.’

      ‘They’ve had breakfast, then.’

      Getting his hint, she smiled. ‘I bet Denise has whipped up a feast. You look like a bacon-and-eggs man.’

      His brows lifted. Good guess. ‘And you say that because…’

      She dropped the ponytail. ‘I have a crystal ball.’

      ‘A crystal ball would come in handy. Have you asked it about our six-week trial?’

      As a warm breeze blew back the ribbons of her hair, he thought he saw her brow pinch. ‘What do you think it would say?’

      He didn’t need a crystal ball to predict what would happen here. But suddenly he wasn’t feeling so hot about playing a game that could only end one way. Even if he did step aside, Rodney would find another buyer. If, indeed, he could attract another decent bid for a business on the brink. Celeste was in a no win situation. Should he convince Rodney to allow her to continue with this doomed plan until she chose to walk away herself? Or would it be kinder to call stumps now? He knew from experience that holding onto fantasy could be worse than facing the truth. The sooner a person accepted, the sooner they could start to hold it together and survive another way.

      When they entered the house, those thoughts evaporated as he soaked up the aroma of warm toast and, he was betting, fresh muffins. Man, he was starved. He was about to excuse himself and wash up when a familiar voice drifted down the hall.

      Celeste turned to him with a curious gaze. ‘My father’s back.’

      A female voice tinkled down to them next. ‘Sounds like he’s brought company.’

      They found Rodney and his guest standing in the middle of the Axminster-carpeted living room, beneath the shifting reflections of a sparkling chandelier. From the night before, Ben recognised the woman. He wasn’t the least surprised that Rodney was kissing her. He’d had the strongest feeling…

      Celeste’s hands flew to her mouth, but a gasp escaped.

      Startled, Rodney broke the kiss and stepped back from the beautiful widow, Suzanne Simmons.

      His moustache drooping, Rodney cleared his throat then rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Celeste, Benton, you both know Mrs Simmons.’

      Ben anticipated Celeste’s reaction. He stepped closer, surreptitiously steadying her before her legs gave way. Ben nodded a greeting at the couple. Celeste couldn’t manage the same courtesy. Who could blame her? This must be a shock.

      Her voice was threadbare. ‘What’s going on?’

      With her eyes on Ben and Celeste, Suzanne Simmons touched her beau’s arm. Reassuring