Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress Read Online Free

jet. Now he wore harmless dark trousers and a pure white shirt, but her insides tightened impurely, ambushed by bare-and-wet-skinned images. To her credit, Isabelle didn’t stare, not at his freshly shaven jaw nor at the flare of his nostrils as he breathed in the scent of her baking. But then he picked up a petit four from the cooling tray and juggled it from one hand to the other as if judging the temperature, and that contrast of large, olive-skinned hands and tiny, delicate cake held her riveted.
    Then he popped it in his mouth and murmured something low and indistinguishable and possibly foreign. Exact words didn’t matter. His meaning was clear in the warm glimmer of his eyes and in the little finger-kissing gesture that followed.
    It was very European and immensely flattering, and the way her hormones danced around in giddy response sounded a loud, clanging alarm in Isabelle’s brain. She shook herself back into the real world, where the housekeeper didn’t stare at her employer’s hands and mouth and fantasise about that kiss on her skin.
    When he reached for a second cake, she slid the tray out of reach.
    â€œIs that silent chastisement?” he asked, smiling, unchastised. “Or is there a one-treat limit?”
    She couldn’t look at that smile; it would tie her tongue in knots. With quick hands, she transferred the remaining cakes to a serving plate, then slid it across the countertop. “Go your hardest,” she invited.
    One brow rose in a questioning arch. A wicked glint darkened his eyes. Isabelle gave herself a silent scolding. Obviously she needed to be on her mettle, to watch her tongue, to measure her words.
    â€œThey are all for you,” she said more carefully. “And those.” She gestured to the table at his back. “Would you prefer tea or coffee?”
    Casting a quick eye over the offerings, he didn’t address the question. Instead he asked, “Did you make the biscotti, Isabelle?”
    His mouth turned the words over like a slow caress, and Isabelle caught herself watching, fascinated, for a second too long. For distraction she turned to the teapot. Whether he wanted tea or not, the measured actions gave her something to concentrate on other than the illusive wisp of an accent in his voice. She longed to ask about that, told herself it was not hers to know.
    â€œYes,” she managed to answer. “They’re all homemade.” From the corner of her eye she saw him moving, not taking a seat at the table, but settling his hips against the countertop. His watchful silence was so unsettling that she found herself adding, “The biscotti is my gran’s recipe.”
    â€œDid she teach you to bake?”
    â€œShe taught me everything.”
    It was a simple statement but so full of truth that Isabelle regretted opening her mouth. Not talking about herself, being just another efficient but invisible tool in a well-stocked household, was one of the things she liked about this job. That and the cooking-in-fabulously-equipped-kitchens part. “Would now be a good time to discuss menus?” she asked.
    â€œWhat do you need to know?” he responded, still watching her instead of the menus she fanned out on the countertop. Still taking up too much space, his direct, dark-eyed gaze made her feel all too visible.
    â€œIt will help my planning if I know your schedule,” Isabelle said. “I prefer notice on which meals you require me to cook, when you will be eating out, if you’re expecting guests.”
    â€œTonight I am eating out. I have a meeting in—” he shot a cuff and consulted an expensive-looking watch “—fifty minutes.”
    â€œWhere is your meeting?” she asked automatically. “At this time of day, it will take more than an hour to drive into the city.”
    â€œNot the city. Brighton. It sounds as though you have a good local knowledge.”
    â€œI am a local. Do you