The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress. Cathy Williams

session for poor old Megan before you sent her on her way?’

      Alessandro spun round, but he didn’t make a move towards her. ‘It was…a…mistake…’ And never again would he allow his emotions to control his behaviour.

      He gripped the window sill against which he was leaning and reminded himself that, however much she was hurting now, she was still a kid and would bounce back in no time at all. She would even thank him eventually for walking away from her—would realise in time to come that they were worlds apart and whatever they had had would never have stayed the course of time. It was a reassuring thought.

      Megan couldn’t bear to look at him. She stood up, staring at the ground as though searching for divine inspiration.

      ‘I think I’m going to leave now,’ she said, addressing her feet. ‘I’ll just check the bedroom. See if there’s anything of mine that I should take with me.’

      He didn’t try to stop her rooting through his stuff. The lack of anything belonging to her now seemed ominous proof of her impermanence in his life. He had never encouraged her to leave any of her things at his place. Sure, she’s forgotten odd bits and pieces now and again, like the clothes she was currently standing in, but he’d always returned them.

      The only things she had insisted on leaving were some of her CDs. She was voracious when it came to modern music, whereas he preferred more chilled sounds. Easy listening to the point of coma, she had teased him. Yet another example of those differences between them, which she had stupidly failed to spot but which he had probably noted and lodged away in his mind somewhere, to be brought out later and used in evidence against her.

      Without looking in his direction, she quietly gathered her CDs and stuffed them in a plastic bag.

      ‘I think that’s about everything.’ Some CDs, a toothbrush, some moisture cream, some underwear. Precious little. ‘Good luck with the new job and the new life, Alessandro. I really hope it lives up to expectations and I’m sorry about the mess from the cake. You’ll have to get rid of that yourself.’

      Alessandro nodded. He didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say, and for the first time in his life he didn’t trust himself to speak.

      Megan turned away, and was half-disappointed, half-relieved when he didn’t follow her. There was an emptiness growing inside her, and her throat felt horribly dry and tight, but there would be time enough to cry. Once she was back in her little room at college. Just one last look, though. Before she left for good. But when she turned around, it was to find that he was staring out of the window with his back to her.

      CHAPTER ONE

      MEGAN stooped down so that she was on the same level as the six-year-old, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy in front of her. Face of an angel, but spoiled rotten. She had seen many versions of this child over the past two years, since she had been working in London. It seemed to be particularly predominant at private schools, where children were lavished with all that money could buy but often starved of the things that money couldn’t.

      ‘Okay, Dominic. Here’s the deal. The show’s about to start, the mummies and daddies are all out there waiting, and the Nativity play just isn’t going to be the same without you in it.’

      ‘I don’t want to be a tree! I hate the costume, Miss Reynolds, and if you force me then I’m going to tell my mummy, and you’ll be in big trouble. My mummy’s a lawyer, and she can put people into prison!’ he ended, with folded arms and a note of irrefutable triumph in his voice.

      Megan clung to her patience with immense difficulty. It had been a mad week. Getting six-year-old children to learn and memorise their lines had proved to be a Herculean feat, and the last thing she needed on the day before school broke up was a badly behaved brat refusing to be a tree.

      ‘You’re a very important tree,’ she said gently. ‘Very important. The manger wouldn’t be a manger without a very important tree next to it!’ She looked at her watch and mentally tried to calculate how much time she had to convince this tree to take his leading role on stage—a role which involved nothing more strenuous than waving his arms and swaying. She had only been at this particular school for a term, but she had already sussed the difficult ones, and had cleverly steered them away from any roles that involved speech.

      ‘I want my mummy. She’ll tell you that I can be whatever I want to be! And I want to be a donkey.’

      ‘Lucy’s the donkey, darling.’

       ‘I want to be a donkey!’

      Tree; donkey; donkey; tree. Right now, Megan was heartily wishing that she had listened to her friend Charlotte, when she had decided to leave St Margaret’s and opted for another private school. Somewhere a little more normal. She could deal with normal fractious children. She had spent three years dealing with them at St Nick’s in Scotland, after she had qualified as a teacher. None of them had ever threatened her with prison.

      ‘Okay. How about if we fetch your mummy and she can tell you how important it is for you to play your part? Remember, Dominic! It’s all about teamwork and not letting other people down!’

      ‘Donkey,’ was his response to her bracing statement, and Megan sighed and looked across to where the head of the junior department was shaking her head sympathetically.

      ‘Happened last year,’ she confided, as Megan stood up. ‘He’s not one of our easier pupils, and fetching his mum is going to be tricky. I’ve had a look outside and there’s no sign of her.’ Jessica Ambles sighed.

      ‘What about the father?’

      ‘Divorced.’

      ‘Poor kid,’ Megan said sympathetically, and the other teacher grinned.

      ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you had witnessed him throwing his egg at Ellie Maycock last Sports Day.’

      ‘Final offer.’ Megan stooped back down and held both Dominic’s hands. ‘You play the tree, and I’ll ask your mummy if you can come and watch me play football over the vacation if you have time.’

      Forty-five minutes later and she could say with utter conviction that she had won. Dominic Park had played a very convincing tree and had behaved immaculately. He had swayed to command, doing no damage whatsoever, either accidental or intentional, to the doll or the crib.

      There was just the small matter of the promised football game, but she was pretty sure that Chelsea mummies, even the ones without daddies, were not going to be spending their Christmas vacation at home. Cold? Wet? Grey? Somehow she didn’t think so.

      Not that she had any problem with six-year-old Dominic watching her play football. She didn’t. She just didn’t see the point of extending herself beyond her normal working hours. She wasn’t sure what exactly the school policy was on pupils watching their teachers play football, and she wasn’t going to risk taking any chances. Not if she could help it. She was enjoying her job and she deserved to. Hadn’t it taken her long enough to wake up in the morning and look forward to what the day ahead held in store for her?

      From behind the curtain she could hear the sound of applause. Throughout the performance cameras and video recorders had been going mad. Absentee parents had shown up for the one day in the year they could spare for parental duty, and they were all determined to have some proof of their devotion.

      Megan smiled to herself, knowing that she was being a little unfair, but teaching the children of the rich and famous took a little getting used to.

      In a minute everyone would start filtering out of the hall, and she would do her duty and present a smiling face to the proud parents. To the very well-entertained parents—because, aside from the play, they would be treated to substantial snacks, including crudités, delicate salmon-wrapped filo pastries, miniature meatballs and sushi for the more discerning palate. Megan had gaped at the extravaganza of canapés. She still hadn’t quite got to grips with cooking, and marvelled at anyone who could produce