Wanted: Mistress And Mother. Carol Marinelli

      

      Wanted: Mistress and Mother

      Carol Marinelli

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      EPILOGUE

      COMING NEXT MONTH

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      INAPPROPRIATE.

      It was the first word that sprang to mind as dark, clearly irritated eyes swung round to face her, black eyes that stared down at Matilda, scrutinising her face unashamedly, making her acutely aware of her—for once—expertly made-up face. The vivid pink lipstick the beautician had insisted on to add a splash of colour to her newly straightened ash blonde hair and porcelain complexion seemed to suddenly render her mouth immovable, as, rather than slowing down to assist, the man she had asked for directions had instead, after a brief angry glance, picked up speed and carried on walking.

      Inappropriate, because generally when you stopped someone to ask for directions, especially in a hospital, you expected to be greeted with a courteous nod or smile, for the person to actually slow down, instead of striding ahead and glaring back at you with an angry question of their own.

      ‘Where?’

      Even though he uttered just a single word, the thick, clipped accent told Matilda that English wasn’t this man’s first language. Matilda’s annoyance at this response was doused a touch. Perhaps he was in the hospital to visit a sick relative, had just flown in to Australia from…In that split second her mind worked rapidly, trying to place him—his appearance was Mediterranean, Spanish or Greek perhaps, or maybe…

      ‘Where is it you want to go?’ he barked, finally deigning to slow down a fraction, the few extra words allowing Matilda to place his strong accent—he was Italian!

      ‘I wanted to know how to find the function room,’ she said slowly, repeating the question she had already asked, berating her luck that the only person walking through the maze of the hospital administration corridors spoke little English. That the tall, imposing man she had had to resort to for directions was blatantly annoyed at the intrusion. ‘I’m trying to get there for the opening of the hospital garden. I’m supposed to be there in…’ She glanced down at her watch and let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Actually, I was supposed to be there five minutes ago.’

      ‘Merda!’ As he glanced at his watch the curse that escaped his lips, though in Italian, wasn’t, Matilda assumed, particularly complimentary, and abruptly stepping back she gave a wide-eyed look, before turning smartly on her heel and heading off to find her own way. He’d made it exceptionally clear that her request for assistance had been intrusive but now he was being downright rude. She certainly wasn’t going to stand around and wait for the translation—she’d find the blessed function room on her own!

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He caught up with her in two long strides, but Matilda marched on, this angry package of testosterone the very last thing she needed this morning.

      ‘No, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ Matilda called back over her shoulder, pushing the button—any button—on the lift and hoping to get the hell out of there. ‘You’re clearly busy.’

      ‘I was cursing myself, not you.’ He gave a tiny grimace, shrugged very wide shoulders in apology, which sweetened the explanation somewhat, and Matilda made a mental correction. His English was, in fact, excellent. It was just his accent that was incredibly strong—deep and heavy, and, Matilda reluctantly noted, incredibly sensual. ‘I too am supposed to be at the garden opening, I completely forgot that they’d moved the time forward. My secretary has decided to take maternity leave.’

      ‘How inconsiderate of her!’ Matilda murmured under her breath, before stepping inside as the lift slid open.

      ‘Pardon?’

      Beating back a blush, Matilda stared fixedly ahead, unfortunately having to wait for him to press the button, as she was still none the wiser as to where the function room was.

      ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said,’ he persisted.

      ‘I didn’t say anything,’ Matilda lied, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, or, at the very least, the blessed lift would get moving. There was something daunting about him, something incredibly confronting about his manner, his voice, his eyes, something very inappropriate.

      There was that word again, only this time it had nothing to do with his earlier rude response and everything to do with Matilda’s as she watched dark, olive-skinned hands punching in the floor number, revealing a flash of an undoubtedly expensive gold watch under heavy white cotton shirt cuffs. The scent of his bitter, tangy aftershave was wafting over towards her in the confined space and stinging into her nostrils as she reluctantly dragged in his supremely male scent. Stealing a sideways glance, for the first time Matilda looked at him properly and pieced together the features she had so far only glimpsed.

      He was astonishingly good-looking.

      The internal admission jolted her—since her break-up with Edward she hadn’t so much as looked at a man—certainly she hadn’t looked at a man in that way. The day she’d ended their relationship, like bandit screens shooting up at the bank counter, it had been as if her hormones had been switched off. Well, perhaps not off, but even simmering would be an exaggeration—the hormonal pot had been moved to the edge of the tiniest gas ring and was being kept in a state of tepid indifference: utterly jaded and completely immune.

      Till now!

      Never had she seen someone so exquisitely beautiful close up. It was as if some skilled photographer had taken his magic wand and airbrushed the man from the tip of his ebony hair right down to the soft leather of his expensively shod toes. He seemed vaguely familiar—and she tried over and over to place that swarthy, good-looking face,