Free Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress by Bronwyn Jameson

travel-lagged irritability. She was supposed to be the serene, sensible sister. Somewhere around her twelfth birthday, Gran had first referred to her as Capability Browne and she’d hugged that reference close, unconsciously adopting the label as the person she wanted to be. Calm, composed, capable.
    But these past days—ever since Cristiano Verón had stormed into her life—she’d become someone else entirely. Angry, argumentative, anxious. She’d blamed him and his unpredictability, she’d blamed the worry of Chessie’s situation, but now it was time to put on her big-girl’s blouse and take responsibility.
    She was here to support Chessie, to ensure that her needs weren’t overlooked in deference to Cristo’s sister. She needed to be alert and on her game. She needed to forget her personal disappointment over how he’d deceived her, feigning interest in her life and her family and her dreams all in the guise of uncovering “her” pregnancy.
    That didn’t matter now. Protecting Chessie did.
    As the big sedan glided to a halt outside a row of elegant town houses, she forced herself to relax the tension in her jaw and her shoulders. And when she glanced across, she saw the same tension etched in Chessie’s face. She reached—and it was quite a reach across the width of the backseat—for her sister’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
    Chessie’s fingers gripped hers for a second. They were ice-cold, but her smile was warm. It only trembled a little around the edges. “I’m so glad you came.”
    Isabelle smiled back. “So am I.”
    Â 
    From the pavement outside, Cristo’s home looked like all the others in the immaculately presented rows that lined each side of Wentworth Square. Isabelle blinked in surprise at the traditional facade. She’d expected something more unique, flashy, exotic.
    Then she reminded herself that this was Cristiano Verón. Mr. Unpredictable himself.
    Inside, she had to remind herself several times more.
    Through her job, she was used to grand homes decorated to within an inch of their stylish lives. Most had graced the pages of at least one glossy design magazine. This place transcended anything she’d seen by, oh, about a thousand percent. And, she guessed, several million pounds.
    As they trailed through room after room of Georgian splendour, even Chessie was reduced to gaping, wide-eyed silence by the exquisite detail of the cornice work and the marble fireplaces and the antique furniture. Not to mention the staircase that rose through the centre of the building, with galleried landings on each of the three upper storeys. All were lined with ornately crafted railings.
    And then there was their guide on this tour of the house. Cristo had introduced him simply as Crash. No further explanation as to his position in the household or whether that was his first or last name. Isabelle had wondered if perhaps he was Krasch or Craczj or some other obscure foreign spelling, until he spoke in a voice that could have played all-England. He’d relayed a series of messages to Cristo, who soon after disappeared to his rooms on the first floor, and she’d pegged him as the butler. Although his unorthodox black jeans and T-shirt, shaggy haircut and unshaven jaw belied such a tame label.
    Whatever his position, he showed immense pride in the house. “Cristo bought it three years ago,” he told them as he showed them to their rooms…correction, their suite of rooms. “Previous owner had a rubbish eye for decorating. We only finished the refit late last year.”
    Isabelle paused in the centre of the sitting room that separated their bedrooms. “You did the whole place out? That must have been a challenge.”
    â€œThe challenge was retaining the original design elements while making it liveable.”
    Chessie raised her eyebrows at that description. She almost touched the