His Mistress for a Million

‘So how much, Cleo? How much to secure your services for a month? Four hundred thousand dollars? Would that be enough?’

The numbers went whirling around her brain. Four hundred thousand dollars for a month of pretending to be Andreas’ companion? Was she nuts even to think about giving that up? She could go home, pay for the farm’s leaking roof to be fixed, and she’d still have enough left over to buy a place of her own.

But could she pretend to be this man’s lover? She shook her head, trying to work it all out. ‘Andreas, I—’

‘Five hundred thousand pounds! One million of your dollars. Will that be enough to sway your mind?’

One million dollars. She swallowed against a throat that felt tight and dry. ‘I don’t know if I’m the right person for the job.’

He smiled then, as he curved one hand around her neck. ‘You’ll be perfect. Any other questions?’

She shook her head. His fingers were warm and gentle on her skin and setting her flesh alight.

‘Then what say we seal this deal with a kiss?’

Trish Morey is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a life-long love of reading, she penned her first book at age eleven, after which life, career, and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com

THE RUTHLESS GREEK’S VIRGIN PRINCESS

FORCED WIFE, ROYAL LOVE-CHILD THE ITALIAN BOSS’S MISTRESS OF REVENGE THE SHEIKH’S CONVENIENT VIRGIN

To the Maytoners, every one of you warm, generous and wise. This one’s for you, with thanks. xxx

REVENGE was sweet.

Andreas Xenides eyed the shabby building that proclaimed itself a hotel, its faded sign swinging violently in the bitter wind that carved its way down the canyon of the narrow London street.

How long had it taken to track down the man he knew to be inside? How many years? He shook his head, oblivious to the cold that had passers-by clutching at their collars or burrowing hands deeper into pockets. It didn’t matter how long. Not now that he had found him.

The cell phone in his pocket beeped and he growled in irritation. His lawyer had agreed to call him if there was a problem with his plan proceeding. But one look at the caller ID and Andreas had the phone slipped back in his pocket in a moment. Nothing on Santorini was more important than what was happening here in London today, didn’t Petra know that?

The wind grew teeth before he was halfway across the street, another burst of sleet sending pedestrians scampering for cover to escape the gusty onslaught, the street a running watercolour of black and grey.

He mounted the hotel’s worn steps and tested the handle. Locked as he’d expected, a buzzer and rudimentary camera mounted at the side to admit only those with keys or reservations, but he was in luck. A couple wearing matching tracksuits and money belts emerged, so disgusted with the weather that they barely looked his way. He was past them and following the handmade sign to the downstairs reception before they’d struggled into their waterproof jackets and slammed the door behind them.

Floorboards squeaked under the shoddy carpet and he had to duck his head as the stairs twisted back on themselves under the low ceiling. There was a radio crackling away somewhere in the distance and his nose twitched at a smell of decay no amount of bleach had been able to mask.

This place was barely habitable. Even if the capricious London weather was beyond his control, he had no doubt the clientele would be much happier in the alternative accommodation he’d arranged for them.

A glazed door stood ajar at the end of a short hallway, another crudely handwritten note taped to the window declaring it the office, and for a moment he was so focused on the door and the culmination of a long-held dream that he barely noticed the bedraggled shape stooping down to pick up a vacuum cleaner, an overflowing rubbish bag in the other hand. A cleaner, he realised as she straightened. For a moment he thought she was about to say something, before she pressed her lips together and flattened herself against a door to let him pass. There were dark shadows under her reddened eyes, her fringe was plastered to her face and her uniform was filthy. He flicked his eyes away again as he passed, his nose twitching at the combined scent of ammonia and stale beer. So that was the hired help. Hardly surprising in a dump like this.

Vaguely he registered the sound of her retreat behind him, her hurried steps, the thud of the machine banging against something and a muffled cry. But he didn’t turn. He was on the cusp of fulfilling the promise he’d made to his father on his deathbed.