The Billionaire's Virgin Mistress. Sandra Field

his martini at his surroundings. “So I’m in like a dirty sock—the islanders love me. You might as well drop the gold-digger act, it’s wasted on me. You can’t fool an islander—if they say you’re honest as the tide turns, I’ll go along with that.”

      For now, he added silently.

      With exquisite timing, the waiter deposited a creamy drink sprinkled with nutmeg in front of her. She glared at it, trying to gather her wits. She’d just made a total fool of herself. Good job, Tess. What’s the follow-up?

      “Try your drink,” Cade said, giving her the full benefit of his smile. One of his women had called it lethal; another, dynamite. It was a weapon he wasn’t above using when it suited him.

      But instead of blushing in confusion or smiling back, Tess said furiously, “I’ve never laid eyes on one red cent of your grandfather’s money.”

      His smile faded. “That was the next item on my agenda.” He waited while her antipasto was put in front of her. “I talked to Del today. He’s a stubborn, cantankerous old man, who likes control and claims he’s mislaid the investigator’s report—”

      “You haven’t seen it?”

      The emotion in her face was unquestionably relief. Cade picked up his fork. “No. But I did get out of Del—by sheer bloody-mindedness—the investigator’s discovery that ever since your father died six years ago, your allowance has been siphoned off the account by your mother. Opal Ritchie. I can only presume Cory took it prior to that.”

      Briefly Tess shut her eyes. Opal and Cory. Her parents. Cory with his unpredictable rages, his drug-induced highs. Opal, wild, willful, never to be trusted. The rooms, she thought. Oh God, those awful rooms…

      “What’s wrong?” Cade demanded.

      When she opened her eyes, she was back in the elegant dining room, with its high-arched windows and vaulted ceiling, its polite murmur of conversation; and a pair of stormy-gray eyes boring into her soul. “I’m fine,” she said flatly, and with superhuman effort pulled herself together. The brandy Alexander, which was delicious, slid down her throat. The array of silver looked a little less intimidating. Carefully she selected the mate of the fork Cade had used and took a bite of mango, chewing thoroughly, tasting nothing. “You called me a liar back at the cabin.”

      “I shouldn’t have doubted you,” Cade said curtly. At least with regard to Del’s monthly support, he shouldn’t have. But he still had plenty of other questions about the all-too desirable and highly enigmatic Tess Ritchie.

      The tight knot in her chest easing somewhat—for hadn’t he more or less apologized?—Tess said shrewdly, “You still wish I was a thousand miles away from Del, don’t you? So you and I are on the same wavelength. The distance’ll be forty miles, not a thousand—but forty miles is plenty. Because I don’t care about the Lorimer money. His or yours. I like my life here on the island, it’s all I want and I’m not leaving here. You can tell my grandfather I’m grateful he did his best to support me—it wasn’t his fault that I never saw the money. But it’s too late now. I don’t need his support anymore.”

      Her green eyes blazed with honesty. Disconcerted, Cade discovered in himself a contrary and ridiculous urge to take her words at face value. To trust her.

      He’d never trusted a woman in his life other than Selena, his mother, whose every motive had been on the surface for all to see. Tess wasn’t Selena. Tess was mysterious, fiery and unpredictable.

      Trust her? He’d be a fool to be betrayed by a pair of emerald-green eyes.

      He’d been holding a weapon in abeyance. Deciding now was the time to use it, Cade said coolly, “Del told me something else today—that the investigator drew a complete blank for the year you turned sixteen. The year your father died. What happened that year?”

      Her skin went cold. A roaring filled her ears. She couldn’t faint again, she thought desperately. Not twice in one day. She shoved the fork in her mouth, and concentrated on chewing. She might as well have been eating cardboard.

      She’d slept wrapped in cardboard for over two months.

      Forcing herself to swallow, desperate to change the subject, she said jaggedly, “Where does my grandfather spend his winters?”

      Cade sat back in his chair, gazing at her, his brain in overdrive. Mysterious was a euphemism where Tess was concerned. She was secretive and closemouthed, a woman for whom terror was a constant companion. What had she done at sixteen—or what had happened to her—to induce that blank-eyed stare, those trembling fingers?

      He shoved down an unwelcome pang of compassion, allowing all his latent distrust to rise to the surface instead. She’d been a model of good behavior ever since she’d arrived on Malagash Island. But preceding that? What then?

      “Are you in trouble with the law?” he demanded.

      “No,” she said. But her gaze was downcast, and her voice lacked conviction.

      Fine, he thought. I might just do some investigating on my own behalf. Del likes to think he holds the reins, but I’m the one in control here.

      With equal certainty Cade knew that if he didn’t bring Tess Ritchie back to Moorings, Del would order the chauffeur to drive him to the island and find her for himself.

      He said casually, “You speak very good Italian.”

      “When I was twelve, I lived for a year in Rome.” She glanced up, her eyes shuttered. “I also speak German, Dutch, French and a smattering of Spanish. A European upbringing has its advantages.” Which, she thought bitterly, really was lying.

      “Favorite artist?”

      “Van Gogh. I don’t see how anyone could live in Amsterdam and not love his work. Rembrandt and Vermeer close seconds.”

      “Your tastes in music are eclectic and you like espionage novels.”

      “You should be the investigator,” she said nastily. “I also like medieval art, lavender soap and pizza with anchovies.”

      Lavender, he thought, remembering the fragrant, misty rows of blue in the fields of Provence. It was an unsophisticated scent, earthy and real, that somehow suited her. Trying to focus, he said at random, “Which university did you attend?”

      Her lashes flickered. She said edgily, “There are other ways of getting an education.”

      “Where’s your mother living now?”

      She dropped her fork with a small clatter. “I have no idea.”

      Her main course was put in front of her. Tess grabbed the nearest knife and fork and started to eat. Red wine had been poured in her glass, the firelight dancing like rubies in its depths. In sudden despair, exhausted by memories she only rarely allowed to surface, she craved to be home in her little cabin, the woodstove burning, a mug of hot chocolate on the table beside her.

      And the clock turned back, so that she’d never met Cade Lorimer; never heard of a putative grandfather who lived only forty miles away.

      Cade said, “I’ve upset you.”

      “You’re good at that.”

      “I’d noticed. I’ll book myself into the hotel and get in touch with Del tonight—we’ll go see him tomorrow morning. The library’s closed Sunday and Monday—I checked.”

      “I’m sure you did. I’m not going.”

      No point in arguing now, Cade thought. But at least there was some color back in her cheeks.

      What had she done at sixteen? Quelling a question he couldn’t possibly answer, he began talking about the Vermeers he’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum, segueing to the political scene in Manhattan; and discovered she was well-informed, her judgments acute, occasionally slanted in a way that fascinated him. Then, of course, there was the play of firelight in the thick mass of her hair, the shadows shifting