The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress

The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress
CATHY WILLIAMS

Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.His diamond mistressAs Alessandro Caretti made his ruthless climb to the top, his glamorous new world shut the door on ordinary Megan. Now a multi-millionaire tycoon, Alessandro is back – and he wants the one thing his money can’t buy: Megan.Still totally out of her depth, Megan will never understand which string of diamonds matches which of the couture outfits Alessandro commands she wear! But for Alessandro Megan’s silk dresses are irrelevant – his only interest is keeping his mistress where she belongs…firmly between his silk sheets!

With the whole outfit put together—the classic jewellery round her neck,the perilously high shoes addinga further four inches to her frame,the dress which clung in all the rightplaces—she felt like a million dollars.And she felt even better when she sawthe expression in his eyes as he stoodwatching her descend the staircase.

‘Stop that,’ he said unsteadily, and Megan gathered herself sufficiently to answer.

‘Stop what?’

‘Looking so damned sexy. An outing to the theatre doesn’t stand a chance when your mouth is begging to be kissed… along with every other part of your body. Maybe,’ he growled, taking her in his arms, ‘we should just keep the taxi waiting a few minutes.’

Megan laughed and touched the extravagant string of diamonds at her neck. ‘I’m not missing a minute of this play, Alessandro Caretti!’

‘Are you telling me that I take second place in your life to a bunch of actors on a stage?’

She sighed. ‘I’m not your property, Alessandro.’

‘When it comes to my women, I don’t do sharing.’

Cathy Williams is originally from Trinidad, but has lived in England for a number of years. She currently has a house in Warwickshire, which she shares with her husband, Richard, her three daughters, Charlotte, Olivia and Emma, and their pet cat, Salem. She adores writing romantic fiction, and would love one of her girls to become a writer—although at the moment she is happy enough if they do their homework and agree not to bicker with one another!

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THE ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET LOVE-CHILD

THE MULTI-MILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

BY

CATHY WILLIAMS

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

THE MULTI-MILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

PROLOGUE

‘WHAT the hell did you think you were playing at?’

Alessandro had stormed into the bedroom. There was no other way to put it. He had stormed into the bedroom. The beautiful, angular lines of his face were tight with anger and Megan didn’t know why. Well, she sort of knew why. She just couldn’t quite understand the depth of his fury.

‘Playing at?’ she asked weakly, hands clasped behind her back as she leant against the wall.

Having been practically shoved into the bedroom an hour before, like a stray bug that had inadvertently wandered into his bedsit, necessitating immediate quarantine, she had been on the verge of dozing off when the sound of his footsteps heading towards the room had seen her springing off the bed and virtually standing to attention by the window. Of course she had known that he wouldn’t be sunshine and light, not after his reaction to her perfectly innocent and well-intentioned birthday surprise. She just hadn’t reckoned on this backlash of anger.

‘You heard me! That ridiculous stunt of yours!’

The voice that could make her weak with love and longing, that could drive her mad with desire, was cold and cutting.

‘It wasn’t a ridiculous stunt. It was a birthday surprise. I thought you’d like it.’

‘Like you barging in unannounced and bursting out of a birthday cake? When I’m in the process of having a meeting with people who could change the direction of my life?’

Megan chewed her lip and stared at him. God, he was so beautiful. Even now, when he looked as though he would happily throttle her given half a chance, he was still sinfully sexy. Six foot two inches of gorgeous, head-turning masculinity, and all she wanted to do was coax him out of this black humour—because it was his birthday, after all, even if he had no desire to celebrate it.

She risked a little smile. ‘You have no idea how strenuous it is being a birthday cake! I have the scars to prove it!’ No exaggeration there, she thought. Her amazing plan had involved her friend Charlotte rigging up two boxes into something that resembled a cake—a piece of engineering which, Megan had been assured, would work like clockwork. One spring, and bingo! She would be revealed in all her glory! Her blonde curls had been tamed into a Marilyn Monroe format of soft waves, a mole had been perfectly positioned on one cheekbone, her full lips had been primed to scarlet, pouting perfection.

Needless to say they had not bargained on the full hour it had taken to be delivered in rush-hour traffic. Nor had they foreseen the possibility that the cunning contraption might prove to have a mind of its own, refusing to oblige a swift and easy exit, so that once in Alessandro’s poky front room she had found herself having to do battle with masking tape when her legs were numb and her blood circulation virtually non-existent.

It had all added up to an inglorious, fairly shambolic situation, which had seen her crawling out of the box amidst a mass of screwed-up tape and crunched-up pink tissue paper—at which point she had been confronted by the embarrassing sight of three men in pinstriped suits and one very, very angry boyfriend.

‘I was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe,’ she expanded, when her smile failed to make headway.

She gestured to her outfit, which had started off in much better condition. Three hours before it had been a glamorous black swimsuit, revealing a tantalising amount of cleavage. She also wore high, black shoes, long black gloves and fishnet stockings. The swimsuit was still intact, but one glove was currently residing somewhere in said birthday cake, the shoes had been kicked off, and the fishnet tights now sported a long, unattractive rip down one leg. Not so much Marilyn-of-the-Happy-Birthday-Song as Marilyn-on-Tour-of-War-duty.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ Her voice was growing less confident by the second. ‘Or at least find it funny.’

‘Megan…’ Alessandro sighed. ‘We need to…to talk…’

She relaxed a little. Yes, she could do talking. He was the most fascinating man she had ever met, and she could talk to him until the cows came home—especially now, when he was no longer glaring at her with eyes that were like chips of dark, glacial ice.

‘I guess we could…’ she said, taking a couple steps towards him. ‘Talk. Although…’ a few more steps and she was standing directly in front of him, looking up at him ‘…I can think of more interesting things to do…’ She splayed her hand across his chest, loving the feel of its rippling hardness. ‘I prefer it when you wear shirts, Alessandro. I like unbuttoning them. Have I ever told you that? Tee shirts just aren’t the same. Not that this black tee shirt doesn’t look very nice on you.’ It did. It wasn’t baggy and shapeless, but clung in a very masculine way.

Alessandro reached out and caught her wandering hand in his. ‘I said talk, Megan. And we can’t talk in here.’

‘Have your friends gone?’

‘They weren’t my friends.’

He dropped her hand and turned away, walking out of the bedroom so that she was obliged to follow him. He couldn’t think straight when Megan was anywhere near the vicinity of a bed—especially when she was wearing an outfit that revealed every single curve of her fabulous, sexy little body.

‘And put something on,’ he commanded, without looking round.

‘Oh, right. They’re the people who are going to change the direction of your life.’

En route, she grabbed one of his shirts. He only wore white shirts, which she had told him was a very boring trait indeed. She had tried to even the balance by buying him a garishly coloured Hawaiian shirt, with a pattern of lurid coconut trees against a brilliant blue background, but he had yet to wear it. She suspected that it had been shoved at the bottom of his wardrobe somewhere.

She sensed him stiffen at her throwaway remark, but he didn’t say anything. Just flung himself on the sofa that occupied one side of the space in his modest student accommodation, which only someone massively optimistic could call a sitting room.

It was literally a poky box, as he had told her on more than one occasion. But he had worked like a slave, he said, to put himself through university, and his destiny was to become master. Master of all he surveyed. Once he left, he would never look back

Megan didn’t like to think too hard about where all of this mastery and conquering of the universe stuff was going to take him. Out of her life, she guessed. But who knew? Eternally optimistic, and madly in love for the very first time in her life, she was happy to put any thoughts about an uncertain future on hold. She was nineteen. She had her own college life to think about. She didn’t want to foresee a day when her life wasn’t going to be joined up with his.