Free Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress by Bronwyn Jameson Page B

before she snapped to attention. “I meant the phone call.”
    â€œThat was only my mother,” he said dismissively. Then, when her eyes widened with disapproval, he elaborated. “She wanted to discuss a problem with the wedding arrangements.”
    â€œWhen there may not be a wedding,” she murmured, picking up on his meaning.
    â€œIndeed.”
    Their gazes met in a moment of solemn accord, a reminder of what still sat between them. Her being here in his house, in his bedroom, was not about them or the fizz of physical attraction. Yet. The seriousness of the situation with Harrington and her sister lurked, dark as a thundercloud, on the horizon. But when he’d opened the door and found her standing there, when he felt the heat of her gaze taking him in and the lightning-bolt response low in his belly, he knew there would be a time for them.
    He could be patient. Opening his bedroom door to a willing Isabelle would be worth the wait.
    Leaving the door wide open, he retreated to an armoire and deposited the phone. In the wall mirror he saw her swallow her reservations, lift her chin and step into the room…not very far into the room, however. Barely over the threshold she paused, her unsettled gaze skating from the bed to his shirtless back and on around the room. She looked uncomfortable and out of sorts.
    Because this was his bedroom, because he was only half-dressed, because she too felt the crackle of awareness and wanted to run from it. A pity this was the wrong time. He would have enjoyed the chase.
    Suppressing that desire, he turned to the bed, sat and reached for his shoes and socks. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I am assuming that you didn’t come down here to watch me dress.”
    â€œHave you spoken to Harrington?” she asked quickly, but he felt the warm glide of her gaze over his shoulders and back as he bent to pull on a shoe. He glanced up and caught her looking. He saw the involuntary flare of her nostrils, the softening of her bottom lip, the guilty flush of colour in her cheeks, and gave up the fight to suppress his elemental response.
    She looked at him like that, his body responded. So be it.
    â€œUnfortunately, I haven’t,” he said slowly in response to her question.
    Her chin came up, her gaze sharpening on his. “Why ever not?”
    â€œBecause he isn’t answering his phone.”
    â€œDoes he know that you found Chessie? Did you leave a message?”
    â€œWith Amanda?” he asked dryly.
    â€œWhat about at work,” she persisted. “Surely he has a secretary or an assistant.”
    â€œThat would be Amanda.”
    â€œOh.”
    Cristo watched her chew at her bottom lip while the heat stirred in his belly and thighs and all points in between. “I may not hear from him for several days,” he warned, predicting her next question. “He is out of town.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    For a second he thought she would question that, as well, but then she let go her indignation on a weighty sigh. Her shoulders slumped and that signal of defeat, small but definite, brought Cristo to his feet.
    â€œThis is not such a bad outcome,” he said. “You and Francesca can use a day to recover from the flight. Catch up on your sleep, relax, and when he does arrive you will be ready to deal with the meeting and the outcome.”
    She did not look convinced. Worry creased between her brows as he closed down the space between them. He had no purpose in mind other than a need to be nearer, to ease that worry, to see her eyes spark once more. Through the open door he heard voices—Crash’s gruff murmur, Francesca’s response. He cocked his head, drawing Isabelle’s attention to the sound. “Your sister will appreciate the time to get her bearings, surely.”
    â€œYou’re right about Chessie,” she relented. Wary eyes followed him as he passed. She