Mistress to the Merciless Millionaire

‘You said one kiss.’

Tiarnan looked at her for a long moment, and Kate felt her breasts crushed to his chest. Her whole body was crying out to mould into his, to allow it to go up in flames.

She repeated herself, as if that might change the direction things had been taking since he’d walked up to her on that stage in San Francisco.

‘You said one kiss.’

Tiarnan snaked one arm around her back, pulling her in even tighter. The other went to the back of her head. She was his captive, and couldn’t move even if she’d wanted to.

‘I lied.’

Abby Green got hooked on Mills & Boon^® romances while still in her teens, when she stumbled across one belonging to her grandmother in the west of Ireland. After many years of reading them voraciously, she sat down one day and gave it a go herself. Happily, after a few failed attempts, Mills & Boon bought her first manuscript.

Abby works freelance in the film and TV industry, but thankfully the four a.m. starts and the stresses of dealing with recalcitrant actors are becoming more and more infrequent, leaving more time to write!

She loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her through her website at www.abby-green.com. She lives and works in Dublin.

MISTRESS TO
THE MERCILESS
MILLIONAIRE
BY
ABBY GREEN

MILLS & BOON^®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This is for Lorna Mugan and Anne Warter,

whose friendship I value so much.

PROLOGUE

KATE LANCASTER stood at the very ornate stone font where her two-month-old goddaughter was being christened. The holy water was being poured onto her forehead as the priest said a blessing in French. The ceremony was achingly beautiful, in a tiny ancient chapel in the grounds of her best friend Sorcha’s new home, a stunning château just outside Paris. Kate had been at her wedding in this same chapel just nine months previously, as maid of honour.

And yet this moment in which Kate wanted nothing more than to focus fully on the christening was being upstaged effortlessly by the tall man who stood to her right. Tiarnan Quinn.

He’d also been at the wedding, as best man; he was Sorcha’s older brother.

Kate tried to stem the pain, hating that it could rise here and taint this beautiful occasion, but she couldn’t stop it. He was the man who had crushed her innocent ideals, hopes and dreams. The man who had shown her a moment of explosive sensuality and in the process ruined her for all other men. And yet she knew she had no one to blame but herself. If she hadn’t been so determined to—She ruthlessly crushed that line of thinking. It was so long ago she couldn’t believe it still affected her. That it still felt so fresh.

Despite her best efforts to block him out she could feel the heat from his large body envelop her, his scent wind around her, threatening to burst open a veritable Pandora’s Box of memories. The familiar weight of desire she felt whenever she was near him lay heavy within her, a pooling of heat in her belly, between her legs. Usually she was so careful to avoid him, but she couldn’t here—now. Not at this intimate ceremony where they were being made godparents in this traditional ritual.

She’d survived the wedding; she’d survive this. And then walk away and hope that one day he wouldn’t affect her so much. But how long had she been hoping for that now? A sense of futility washed through her—especially as she recognised that if anything her awareness of him was growing exponentially stronger.

Her jaw was tight from holding it so rigid, her back as straight as a dancer’s. She tried to focus on Sorcha and Romain. They were oblivious to all except themselves and their baby. Romain took Molly tenderly from the priest, cradling her easily with big hands. He and Sorcha looked at one another over their daughter’s head, and that look nearly undid Kate completely. It was so private; so full of love and hope and earthy sensuality, that it felt voyeuristic to be witnessing it. And yet Kate couldn’t look away or stop her heart clenching with a bittersweet pain, momentarily and shamingly jealous of what they shared.

This was what Kate wanted. This was all she’d ever wanted. A fulfilment that was so simple and yet so rare. Tiarnan shifted beside her, his arm brushing against hers, making her tense even more rigidly. Against her will she looked up at him; she couldn’t not. He’d always drawn her eyes to him, like a helpless moth to the certain death of a burning flame.

He was looking down at her and her heart stopped, breath faltered. He frowned slightly, an assessing look in his gaze as he seemed to search deep within her soul for her secrets. He’d looked at her like that at the wedding, and it had taken all her strength to appear cool. He was looking at her as if trying to figure something out. Figure her out. Kate was so raw in that moment—too raw after witnessing Romain and Sorcha’s sheer happiness and love. It was worse than the wedding. She had no defence here with a tiny baby involved—a tiny baby she’d held in her arms only a few moments ago. Holding that baby had called to the deepest, most primitive part of her.

Normally she coped so well, but with Tiarnan looking at her so intently her protective wall of icy defence was deserting her spectacularly, leaving in its place nothing but heat. And she couldn’t do anything to stop it. Her eyes dropped betrayingly to his mouth. She quite literally yearned to have him kiss her, hold her. Love her. Look at her the way Romain had just looked at Sorcha. She’d never wanted that from any other man, and the realisation was stark now, cutting through her.

Against her volition her eyes rose to meet his again. He was still looking at her. Despite everything, she knew the futility of her secret desires; the feelings within her were rising like a tidal wave and she was helpless to disguise them, caught by the look in his eyes. She also knew, without being able to stop it, that he was reading every raw and naked emotion on her face, in her eyes. And as she watched his blue eyes darkened to a glittering shade of deep sapphire with something so carnal and hot that she instinctively put out a hand to search for something to cling onto, seriously fearful that her legs wouldn’t support her.

He’d never looked at her with such explicit intensity…it had to be her imagination. It was all too much—and here she was, pathetically projecting her own desires onto him…

It was only after a few seconds that she realised Tiarnan had clasped her arm with a big hand. He was holding her upright, supporting her…And right then Kate knew that all her flimsy attempts to defend herself against him for years were for naught. He’d just seen through it all in an instant. Seen through her. Her humiliation was now complete.

CHAPTER ONE

One month later. Four Seasons Hotel, downtown San Francisco

KATE felt even more like a piece of meat than usual, yet she clamped down on her churlish thoughts and pasted on her best professional smile as the bidding continued. The smack of the gavel beside her made her flinch minutely. The fact that the gavel was being wielded by a well-known A-list Hollywood actor was not making the experience any easier. Despite her years of experience as a top model, she was still acutely uncomfortable under scrutiny, but she had learnt to disguise it well.

‘Twenty-five thousand. Twenty-five thousand dollars to the gentleman here in the front. Am I bid any higher?’

Kate held her breath. The man under the spotlight with the unctuous grin was a well-known Greek shipping magnate. He was old, short, fat and bald, and his beady obsidian eyes were devouring Kate as he practically licked his lips. For a second she felt intensely vulnerable and alone, standing here under the lights. A shudder went through her. If someone else didn’t—

‘Ah! We’ve a bidder in the back—thirty thousand dollars from the new arrival.’

A rush of relief flooded Kate and she tried to strain to see past the glaring spotlights to identify who the new bidder was. It appeared as if the ballroom lighting technicians were trying to find him too, with the spotlight lurching from coiffed person to coiffed person, all of whom laughed and waved it away. The bidder seemed determined to remain anonymous. Well, Kate comforted herself, whoever it was couldn’t be any worse a prospect to kiss in front of all these people than Stavros Stephanides.

‘And now Mr Stephanides here in the front is bidding forty thousand dollars…things are getting interesting! Come on, folks, let’s see how deep your pockets are. How can you turn down a chance to kiss this lovely lady and donate generously to charity?’

Kate’s stomach fell again at Stephanides’ obvious determination—but then the actor spied movement in the shadows at the back. ‘Fifty thousand dollars to the mysterious new bidder. Sir, won’t you come forward and reveal yourself?’

No one came forward, though, and inexplicably the hairs rose on the back of Kate’s neck. Then she saw the look of almost comic indignation on Stephanides’ face as he swivelled around to see who his competitor was. The Greek’s expression visibly darkened when someone leant low to speak in his ear. He’d obviously just been informed as to the identity of the mysterious fellow bidder. With an audible splutter Stephanides upped the ante by raising the bidding in a leap to one hundred thousand dollars. Kate held in her gasp at the extortionate amount, but her smile was faltering.

She became aware of the ripple of hushed whispers and a distinct frisson of excitement coming from the back; whoever this person was, he was creating quite a buzz. And then whoever it was also calmly raised their bid—to a cool two hundred thousand dollars. It didn’t look as if her ordeal was going to end anytime soon.

Tiarnan Quinn wasn’t used to grand, showy gestures. His very name was the epitome of discretion. Discretion in everything: his wealth; his work; his life, and most definitely in his affairs. He had a ten-year-old daughter. He didn’t live like a monk, but neither did he parade his carefully selected lovers through the tabloids in the manner so beloved of other men in his position: a divorced heterosexual multi-billionaire male in the prime of his life.

None of his lovers had ever kissed and told. He made sure that any ex-partner was so well compensated she would never feel the need to break his trust. He always got out before any messy confrontations, and he always kept his private life very private. None of his lovers ever met his daughter because he had no intention of marrying ever again, and to introduce them to Rosalie would be to invite a level of intimacy that was reserved solely for his family: his daughter, sister and mother.

His lovers provided him with relief. Nothing more, nothing less.

And yet here he was now, bidding publicly, albeit discreetly for the moment, in the name of charity, for a kiss with Kate Lancaster—one of the most photographed women in the world. Because something in his mind and body was chafing, and for the first time in a long time he was thinking discretion be damned. He wanted this woman with a hunger he’d denied for too long. A hunger he’d only recently given himself permission fully to acknowledge and to believe it could be sated.

And it had been a long time building—years. He could see now that it had been building with a stealthy insidiousness into a subconscious need that was now very conscious—a burning necessity. His mouth twisted; those years hadn’t exactly been uneventful or allowed much time for contemplation. A shortlived marriage and an acrimonious divorce, not to mention becoming a single parent, had taken up a large part of that time. If he’d had the luxury of time on his hands he might have realised a lot sooner—He halted his thoughts. No matter. He was here now.

His attention came back to Kate, focused on Kate, and he had the uncanny sensation of being in the right place at the right time. It was a sensation he usually associated with business, not something more emotional. He corrected himself; this wasn’t about emotion. It was desire. Unfulfilled desire.

Perhaps it was because he’d finally allowed himself to think of it again—that moment ten years ago—but it was as if the floodgates had opened on a dam. It had been little more than a kiss, and yet it was engraved more hotly onto his memory than anything he’d experienced before or after. It had taken all of his will-power and restraint to pull away from her that night. Since then Kate had been strictly off-limits to him for myriad reasons: because that incendiary moment had shaken him up a lot more than he cared to admit; because she’d been so young and his little sister’s best friend.

He remembered the way her startlingly blue eyes had stared directly into his, as if she’d been able to see all the way into his soul. As if she’d wanted him to see all the way into hers. She’d looked at him like that again only a few weeks ago. And it had taken huge restraint for him to allow Kate to retreat back into her shell, to ignore his intense desire. Until now, when he knew he could get her on her own, could explore for himself if what he’d seen meant what he thought it did.

His sister’s wedding had sparked off this burgeoning need, this awareness. He hadn’t been thrown into such close proximity to Kate for years. But all through the ceremony and subsequent reception she’d held him back with that cool, frosty distance of hers. It was like being subjected to a chilly wind whistling over a deserted moor. He’d always been aware of it—yet that day, for the first time in years, it had rankled. His interest had been piqued. Why was she always so cool, distant?

Admittedly they had a history that up until now he’d been quite happy not to unearth. He knew on some level that that night ten years ago had marked a turning point for him, and perhaps it was one of the reasons he’d found it so easy to relegate Kate to a place he had no desire to re-explore. Her studied indifference over the years had served to keep a lid on those disturbing memories.

And yet he knew he couldn’t deny the fact that he’d always been aware of her—aware of how she’d blossomed from a slightly gauche teenager into a stunningly assured and beautiful woman.

He’d thought he had that awareness and desire under control, but one night some years ago a girl had bumped into him in the street: blonde, caked in make-up, and wearing an outfit that was only a hair’s breadth away from a stripper’s. The feel of her body slamming into him, her huge blue eyes looking straight up into his, had scrambled his brain and fired his libido so badly that he’d sent his date home that night with some pathetic excuse and hadn’t been able to look at another woman for weeks—turned on by a girl in a tarty French maid’s outfit because she’d borne some resemblance to—

Tiarnan halted his wayward thoughts right there. He chafed at the resurgence of something so minor he’d thought long forgotten—and at the implication that Kate had occupied a bigger place in his mind than he’d admitted to himself. He reassured himself that he’d had his own concerns keeping him more than occupied—and lovers who’d been only too warm and willing, making it easy to shut out the frosty indifference of one woman. Seeing Kate just once or twice a year had hardly been conducive to stoking the embers of a latent desire.

But just a few weeks ago…at the baptism…she’d turned and looked at him and that cool façade had dropped for the first time. She’d looked at him with such naked blatant need in those fathomless blue depths that he’d felt as if a truck had just slammed into him. For the first time Tiarnan had seen the heat of her passion under that all too cool surface. It was a heat he hadn’t seen since that night, when it had combusted all around them. It could have ended so differently if he hadn’t found a thread of control to cling onto.

In one instant, with one look, Tiarnan had been flung back in time, and all attempts to keep her off limits had been made redundant. It was almost as if he’d been put to sleep after that night, and now, with a roaring, urgent sucking-in of oxygen, he was brought back to painful, aching life.

She’d clammed up again after a few moments, but it had been enough of a crack in her armour…

Blood heated and flowed thick through his veins as he took her in now. She was dressed in a dark pink silk cocktail dress, strapless, showing off the delicate line of her shoulders and collarbone, her graceful neck. Her long, luxuriant blonde hair—her trademark—hung in loose waves over her shoulders, a simple side parting framing her face. And even though he was right at the back of the room those huge blue eyes stood out. Her soft rose-pink lips were full, the firm line of her jaw and straight nose transforming banal prettiness into something much more formidable. True beauty. There was fragility in the lines of her body, and yet a sexy lushness that would have an effect on every man in that room—something Tiarnan was very aware of. Uncomfortably so.

He felt a proprietorial urge to go and sweep her off that stage and out of everyone’s sight. It only firmed his resolve, strengthened his sense of right.

His eyes drifted down with leisurely and very male appreciation, taking in slender shapely legs, it was clear why she’d become one of the most sought-after models in the world. She was, quite simply, perfect. She’d become a darling of the catwalks despite their predilection for a more emaciated figure; she was the face of a well-known lingerie company among countless other campaigns. Her cool, under-the-surface sensuality meant that people sometimes described her as cold. But the problem was he knew she wasn’t.

He had the personal experience to know that she was very, very hot.

Why had he waited so long for this?

Tiarnan clamped down on looking again at what had made him suppress his desire for so long—apart from the obvious reasons. He dismissed the rogue notion that rose unbidden and unwelcome that she’d once touched something deep within him. It must have been an illusion, borne up by the fact that they’d shared a moment in time, imbuing the experience with an enigmatic quality.

She’d displayed a self-possession at the age of eighteen that had stunned him slightly. He had to remind himself that he’d overestimated her naivety. She’d known exactly what she’d been doing then, and she was a grown woman now. Tiarnan’s body tightened in anticipation. She was a woman of the world—the kind of woman he could seduce. She was no longer an innocent…A sharp pain lanced him briefly. It felt awfully like regret, and Tiarnan crushed it back down. He didn’t do regret. He would not let her exert this sensual hold over him. He would not let her bring him back in time and reduce him to a mass of seething, frustrated desire with one look because of a kiss! He would seduce her and sate this lust that had been burning for too long under the surface. It was time to bring it out into the open.

All he could think about was how urgently he wanted to taste her again, touch her. She had once tried to seduce him. Now it was his turn. And this time they wouldn’t stop at a kiss.

His attention came back to the proceedings. He saw Stephanides bid again. He had no intention of letting that man anywhere near Kate’s lush mouth. But the Greek was stubborn and out to prove a point—especially now that he’d been informed who it was bidding against him. He and Stephanides were old adversaries. Tiarnan casually made another bid, oblivious to the gasps and looks directed at him, oblivious to the whispers that came from nearby as people speculated if it was really him.

People’s idle speculation and chatter was of little interest to him. What was of interest was Kate Lancaster, as she stood there now, with her huge doe eyes staring straight at him but not seeing him. She would—soon enough.

Stavros Stephanides finally admitted defeat with a terse shake of his head. A sense of triumph filled Tiarnan and it was heady. He hadn’t felt the sensation in a long time because triumph invariably came all too easily. With no idea as to how much he’d finally bid for a kiss with Kate, and not in the slightest bit fazed, he stepped out of the shadows and strode forward to collect his prize. Not just the kiss he was now due, but so much more. And he would collect—until he was sated and Kate Lancaster no longer exerted this mysterious pull over his every sense.

Kate simply didn’t believe her eyes at first. It couldn’t be. It just could not be Tiarnan Quinn striding powerfully through the seated awed crowd towards her, looking as dark and gorgeous as she’d ever seen him in a tuxedo. Her face flamed guiltily; he’d been inhabiting her dreams for weeks—and a lot longer—jeered a taunting voice, which she ignored. Only the previous night she’d woken shaken and very hot after a dream so erotic that she was sure it must be her rampant imagination conjuring him up now.

Fervently hoping that it was just her imagination, she took him in: the formidable build—broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs—the loose-limbed athletic grace that hinted at his love for sports, his abhorrence of the gym. His hair was inky black, cut short, and with a slight silvering at the temples that gave him an air of sober maturity and distinction. As if he even needed it. Kate knew his darkly olive skin came from his Spanish mother. She felt weak inside, and hot.

His face was uncompromising and hard. A strong jaw and proud profile saved it from being too prettily handsome. He was intensely male—more intensely male than any man she’d ever met. Years and maturity had added to his strength, filled out his form, and it was all hard-packed muscle. But his most arresting feature was his eyes—the strongest physical hint of Celtic lineage courtesy of his Irish father. Icy blue and utterly direct. Every time he looked at her she felt as though he saw all the way through her, saw through the paltry defences she put up against him. She tried so hard to project a professional front around him, maintain her distance, knowing that if he ever came near her he’d see in an instant how tenuous her control was.

And he had. The memory sickened her. Just a month ago, at Molly’s christening, he’d caught her in that unguarded moment when her naked desire for him had been painfully evident. It had been just a look, but it had been enough. He’d seen it, and ever since then she’d been having those dreams. Because she thought she’d seen a mirror of reaction in his eyes. And yet she had to be wrong. She wasn’t his type—she might have been for a brief moment, a long time ago, but it had been an aberration.

A dart of familiar pain gripped her momentarily. She knew she wasn’t his type because she’d seen one of his incredibly soignée girlfriends at close quarters, the memory of which made her burn with embarrassment even now. She’d been out with a group of girlfriends, visiting her in New York from Dublin, celebrating a hen night. Kate, very reluctantly, had been dressed in a French maid’s outfit, complete with obligatory fishnet tights and sparkly feather duster, when she’d walked slap-bang into Tiarnan as he’d been emerging from an exclusive Madison Avenue restaurant, an arm protectively around a petite dark-haired beauty.

Kate had felt about sixteen and fled, praying that he hadn’t recognised her. And then, to add insult to injury, one of her friends had chosen that moment to relieve the contents of her stomach in a gutter nearby…She’d never forget the look on Tiarnan’s face, or his date’s, just before they’d disappeared into the darkened interior of a waiting chauffeur-driven car.

Bitter frustration at her weak and pathetic response to him burned her inside. Would his hold over her never diminish? And now she was imagining him here, walking towards her, up the steps. Coming closer. Desperation made her feel panicky. When would the world right itself and the real person be revealed? Someone else. Someone who wasn’t Tiarnan Quinn.

She was barely aware of the Hollywood actor speaking in awed tones beside her, but when he said the name Tiarnan Quinn everything seemed to zoom into focus and Kate’s heart stopped altogether. Reaction set in. It was him—and he was now on the stage, coming closer and closer, his eyes narrowed and intent on her.

Kate’s instinct where this man was concerned was always to run, as far and as fast as possible. And yet here and now she couldn’t. She was caught off guard, like a deer in the headlights. And alongside the very perverse wish that she could be facing anyone else—even sleazy Stephanides—was the familiar yearning, burning feeling she got whenever this man came near.

‘Kate.’ His voice was deep, achingly familiar, and it impacted on her somewhere vulnerable inside, where she felt her pulse jump and her heart start again. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

Somehow she found her voice—a voice. ‘Tiarnan…that was you?’

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. Kate had the strongest sensation that she’d been running from this man for a long time and now it was over. But in actual fact he’d caught her a long time ago. A wicked coil of something hot snaked through her belly even as she clamped down desperately on every emotion and any outward sign of his effect on her.

With a smooth move she didn’t see coming, Tiarnan came close and put his hands around her waist, thumbs disturbingly close to the undersides of her breasts. His touch was so shocking after years of avoiding any contact beyond the most perfunctory that she automatically put her hands out to steady herself, and found herself clasping his upper arms. Powerful muscles were evident underneath the expensive cloth of his suit. Her belly melted and she looked up helplessly, still stunned to be facing him like this. Shock was rendering her usual defences around him useless.

He was so tall; he’d always been one of the few men that she had to look up to, even in the highest of heels. He towered over her now, making her feel small, delicate. She was aware of every slow second passing, aware of their breaths, but she knew rationally that things were happening in real time, and that no one was aware of the undercurrents flowing between them. At least she hoped they weren’t.

‘I believe you owe me a kiss?’

This was said lightly, but Tiarnan’s grip on her waist was warm and firm, warning her not to try and run or shirk her duty. She nodded, feeling utterly bewildered; what else could she do in front of the wealthiest, most powerful people in San Francisco? How much had he paid in the end? She’d forgotten already. But it had been a shockingly high amount. Half a million dollars? She had the very strong feeling that he was claiming far more than a kiss, and that coil of heat burned fiercer within her.

He pulled her closer, until their bodies were almost touching, and all Kate could feel was that heat—within her and around her. It climbed up her chest and into her face as Tiarnan’s head lowered. Overwhelmed at being ambushed like this, and feeling very bewildered, Kate fluttered her eyes closed as the man she’d failed so abysmally to erase from her memory banks pressed his firm, sensual mouth against hers. It had been ten years since they’d kissed like this, and suddenly Kate was eighteen again, pressing her lips ardently against his…

Kate put a shaky finger to her mouth, which still felt sensitive. As kisses went it had been chaste enough, fleeting enough, but the effect had been pure devastation. She’d been hurtled back in time and Pandora’s Box was now wide open. A flare of guilt assailed her; she’d fled the thronged ballroom as soon as she’d had the chance.

They’d been grabbed for photos with the press pack behind the stage straight after Tiarnan had claimed his kiss. Dizzy with the after-effects, she’d stood there smiling inanely. His hand had been warm on her elbow, his presence overwhelming. It was still a complete mystery to her as to why he was here at all, but she hadn’t even had the wherewithal to stick around and make small talk. She’d run. Exactly like that night in New York on the street.

Bitter recrimination burned her. She was falling apart every time she saw him now, and if she’d not already made an ass of herself in France, mooning at him like a lovesick groupie, then tonight would certainly have him wondering what on earth was wrong with her. How was it possible that instead of growing immune to him she was growing ever more aware of him? Where was the law of physics in that?

She’d fled, not really thinking about where she was going, and now she realised that she was in the hotel bar, with its floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering view of downtown San Francisco in all its night-time vibrancy. The sound of a siren wailing somewhere nearby failed to root her in reality. The bar was blissfully dark and quiet. A pianist played soothing jazz in the corner. Kate took a seat at a table by the window. After a few minutes someone approached her. She looked up, thinking it would be the waiter, but it was a stranger—a man. He was wearing a suit and looked a little the worse for wear.