Ruthless Boss, Royal Mistress

by Natalie Anderson

  As he paced the room, breathing hard, the vitriol ran through his veins. She was a bitch, a vain-hearted bitch with an insatiable need to be adored by many. With no understanding of love or loyalty—no capacity to truly, deeply care. Why had he been fool enough to want to believe in her? How could he have let hormones interfere with his heart? How could he honestly have started to believe, to hope that she was different?

  The door opened. He whirled around from where he was mid-flight back across the floor. She was still wearing last night’s outfit. The outfit she’d been snapped in several times at several clubs—making an exhibition of herself.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ he snapped, moving towards her.

  Wariness sprang into her eyes.

  He didn’t need to ask any more. He couldn’t stop himself. ‘You look pale. Got a headache?’

  ‘Actually—’

  ‘Of course you do. Must be a mighty hangover if you got so drunk you were falling over outside that club.’

  She stared.

  ‘Take a look at the picture, princess.’ He pointed to the laptop. ‘Little ugly, isn’t it? For someone so vain I’m surprised you let yourself be caught like that.’

  He glared at her, incensed by the surprise on her face as she saw the pictures plastered over the Internet. ‘What, you thought you’d get away with it? That I wouldn’t find out?’ He laughed; it felt rough and tasted acrid. ‘I can’t believe I thought you were taking this seriously. That you were looking tired from actually doing some work for once in your life. But you haven’t, have you? Instead you’ve been sneaking out to go clubbing like some sixteen-year-old brat.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You’ve been out other nights too, haven’t you?’

  Silently she nodded.

  ‘Can’t you bear to miss even a week out of the scene?’ he bitterly jibed. ‘The party is tonight, Liss. Or had you forgotten that?’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘When that’s over, this whole thing is over.’ And he couldn’t wait to forget all of it. Every last damn minute, every soft sigh, every silken touch—he’d expunge the lot. But right now rage burned. ‘I thought there was more to you, Elissa. I wanted there to be more. But you really are just that shallow, spoilt kid.’

  Liss had a headache all right, and it was thumping. She was tired, she’d been traipsing round club to club last night trying to find someone half decent to spin some tunes at the party. At some hellish new club she’d found some scary-looking guy who she’d made swear not to play anything too tuneless, too loud or too boring. She’d had no sleep because when she’d finally got back to the hotel she’d spent the last few hours in the office downstairs typing up the rest of the brochure for the media kit. What did he think she’d been up to? The accusation in his eyes had her hackles on end.

  ‘Where have you been?’ He couldn’t seem to leave it alone.

  She finally got the chance to get a whole answer in. ‘Are you able to believe me if I tell you?’

  His face tightened and her heart sank.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you when there is no point. You’ve already condemned me.’ Based on nothing, he was so obviously thinking the worst. ‘I thought you were just, James. I thought you were the kind of guy who could give someone a chance. A second chance even.’ She looked for some kind of response, but he didn’t give an inch, still stood with anger carved into him. ‘And in the workplace, it seems you can. But not personally. You’ve given me no chance, no chance at all.’

  She didn’t try to defend herself further. Why bother? So much for thinking he’d seen more in her. So much for worrying that that meant he’d guessed how she really felt about him. Why had she thought he’d see past her act? And why had she been so stupid as to secretly wish he had?

  ‘Why should I? It’s obvious. You’re as flighty and self-centred as they come.’

  ‘If that’s what you think, James,’ she answered tiredly.

  ‘What else is there to think?’

  If he couldn’t see any other reason for her actions, then too bad. At least now she knew exactly where she stood.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LISS spent the morning supervising the final decoration of the ballroom. It took several hours to get the tapestries hung right, but the lights were in place, the chef and his team were having a frantic but fun time. It didn’t seem possible, but it was actually going to come together. The dodgy DJ showed up and set up his equipment and all she could do was cross her fingers and hope that he wouldn’t play anything too awful.

  Tino dropped the dress to her just after lunch. She slipped into it, amazed at how well he’d made it to fit—despite only working from her measurements. It was incredible. And for the minutes she had it on, she felt incredible.

  ‘You’re very talented,’ she said, twisting to look at the back in the mirror. ‘When I can I’ll be ordering some more dresses from you. But I bet I’ll be joining an ever-expanding queue. Where did you get this fabric?’ She made pleasantries—anything to take her mind off James.

  ‘Bahrain. Cost a bomb and I’ve been hanging on to it for ages—too scared to put scissors anywhere near it.’ Tino’s grin was shaky, a rare indication of nerves. ‘But I think it’s worth it for this dress. Stunning, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s so soft.’ The silk warmed against her skin, but felt so light, as if she were draped in tissue paper. As delicate and fragile as she felt inside. ‘How are the crew looking?’ She stood statue-still as he went to sew a minor alteration.

  ‘Damn hot,’ he replied, swaggering once more with confidence. ‘Stella’s downstairs overseeing hair and make-up.’

  Liss managed a smile, fervently hoping he was right and they were the ultimate in glam serving staff. But if the dress he’d made for her was anything to go by, she was in the clear.

  ‘I really appreciate all the work you’ve done.’

  He stood back and scrutinised her with the clinical eye of the professional. ‘You’re going to knock them dead.’

  She smiled, hoped he was right on that front too. But there was only one person on her hit list. ‘You would say that—it’s your design.’

  ‘That only a figure like yours can pull off. Thanks for the opportunity, princess.’

  He turned away while she slipped out of the dress and into her robe. ‘Thank you. You’ve helped me out much more than you realise.’

  After carefully hanging the dress in the wardrobe, she walked him to the door of her bedroom. For a moment they stood chatting, him just outside the door, her leaning against the jamb.

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell every journalist I see who designed the dress.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Make sure you enjoy the party.’

  ‘You too, princess. You should get some rest now. I didn’t design that dress for it to be worn with bags.’

  He tapped below his eyes with a finger.

  Of course James had to walk in just then. Dressed in a suit but looking as if he’d been through a storm—his tie askew, his hair ruffled, his jaw stubbled, his eyes burning.

  Liss froze, felt incredibly conscious that she was wearing only her robe. She felt more naked than she ever had—even when literally naked and intimate in bed with him. And still, despite her vulnerability, he didn’t see her—not as she really was. He saw no innocence in her or in the situation.

  She didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what he was thinking—the worst. So it was official—he only ever thought the worst. Just like all of them. All he saw was a vacuous party girl with nothing more to offer than a short-lived good time—and offering it to anyone. No matter what happened tonight, no matter how successful the ball was, he’d never see her as anything more.

  His stare was scathing, raking over both her and Tino as he strode past, straight into his room. The door slammed.

  Tino looked at her with raised brows.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Liss said, but made
no more excuses, simply showing him out with as polite a smile as she could manage. She’d just shut the door on him when James’s opened again.

  ‘Who was that?’ Straight to it, a lethal bullet.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just want to know.’

  She walked forward with calm steps that were utterly at odds with the mad beat of her heart and the dread dancing in her stomach. ‘You don’t trust me, do you, James?’

  Silence. Her body was washed through with bitter disappointment. She could see the fever in his eyes, the way it was eating him up. He wasn’t capable of listening right now and she was too hurt by it and too tired to fight—to make him see sense. So instead, she decided to tell him his own truth.

  ‘You see only what you choose to see. And what you choose destroys anything we have together. Is that really what you want?’

  He wouldn’t trust her. Refused to. She couldn’t understand why—what had she done to make him doubt her like this?

  All her secret hopes and dreams died. If he didn’t trust her, he could never love her.

  His glare burnt into her, hard, glowing. His jaw set and his mouth barely moved as he ground the words out. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’ He looked away then, his eyes seeming blind as he strode back into his room.

  The door slammed louder that time.

  Shaken, she silently went into her own room. His rage had been a visible, living thing, but he’d told her everything he needed to in one pithy sentence. She leaned back against the door, her fist pressed to her side as if trying to stop the internal haemorrhage.

  Eventually, many deep breaths later, she managed to transform the hurt into a rod of cold steel. She inserted it down her spine. He might say that, but she knew better. He had wanted her and if he was honest he still wanted her. He just didn’t see all that she was. Well, she wasn’t just some plaything—not any more. She could achieve, had achieved, would achieve more. Whether he chose to acknowledge it or not, she told herself not to care. Impossible of course, but she’d try anyway.

  She’d go out there tonight, be proud of what she’d pulled together and hold her head high. James Black be damned.

  In the shower she let herself have a moment—just one moment—when hot tears fell unchecked, scalding her cheeks, and the ache in her throat pierced her as she choked back the howl of agony. For just that time she let the break in her heart be fully felt.

  Then she locked it away, wishing she had an impenetrable chest—had never known it was possible to feel pain this way. She was just going to have to lock it away for ever; it hurt too badly. Then she made the tears stop and the thoughts be buried. She lay on the bed and blanked everything from her mind. She was not going to go to the ball with red, blotchy cheeks. No man was worth that.

  James steered clear of the hotel all the late afternoon. His manager could show the media around. He only needed to be there for the ball and could get away with a brief chat to them then.

  The anger wouldn’t go away. The hurt underneath it only seemed to be growing. He wished he’d yelled. He wished she’d yelled back. Wished she’d told him exactly what she’d been doing and made him look a fool.

  But she’d refused. And thus must be guilty. But now, stupidly, he felt guilty. She’d made him feel as if he were the one in the wrong—that typical womanly way of twisting things: fickle with the truth.

  He’d just wanted to know.

  Glancing at his watch, he realised he was going to have to race to get ready on time. He hadn’t achieved anywhere near as much as he’d wanted to. Tried to focus on business elsewhere but his thoughts were scattered and staying on task proved impossible.

  He ran the blade down his jaw with quick, sure strokes. Stepped into his tux almost straight from the steaming shower, his hair still damp. After tying his shoes he took a quick look in the mirror to check everything was in the right place. And for the first time all week didn’t bother putting a condom or three into his pocket. That madness was finished.

  Another look at his watch and he walked through to the lounge. Allowed himself to think of her since that moment in there when it had felt as if his guts had been ripped from his body. The guy had been dressed in jeans and looked dishevelled and exhausted—as if he’d been up all night.

  She’d looked exhausted too—pale with blue-tinged rings under her eyes. James winced. He already knew she’d been up all night—just not with him.

  Where she was now, he had no idea. Who she was with—no idea either. And even if the effort was going to kill him, he was going to train himself not to care.

  She couldn’t make too much of a mess of the evening. The hotel itself was a masterpiece. There was wine, there was food. A little music and some chat and it would be OK. Perhaps not the incredible success he’d envisaged, but he’d cope. The sooner he got off this island, the better. He’d assign his next-in-command to take care of it from now on.

  He went to the little table by the door where the staff left the paper and any mail for them—and where he usually left his keycard. There was some mail there and he glanced at it. It only took a second to realise it wasn’t for him, but in fact was mail that Liss had written and had put there to be sent. A postcard, writing side up, and he couldn’t stop himself reading part of it. Addressed to Atlanta House, it said how exciting it was that Sandy had given birth to a beautiful daughter and how she couldn’t wait to meet her. She passed on her love and best wishes to the other girls and said she’d be in touch again soon. James pushed the postcard to the side. The warmth so evident in the writing attacked his certainty. Only there was another postcard beneath it, also writing side up, and the address took only a second to scan—to the youthline in Paris. He didn’t read the whole thing, didn’t need to. It was clearly a full-of-chat-and-questions card to the other volunteers who worked there. James blinked. So she still kept in touch with them too?

  Beside the cards there was a small wooden toy—with a tag proudly declaring it had been ‘Handcrafted in Aristo’. It sat on top of an envelope. He nudged the toy. The envelope was addressed to Sandy, care of Atlanta House. The gesture bit into him. It was a sweet thing to do, and he didn’t want to think of her as sweet right now.

  He stared at the little rattle for a while, awash with conflicting feelings. Then it dawned on him that he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. Was he supposed to be greeting guests already? Gritting his teeth, he supposed he’d better go to the ballroom and find out what she’d come up with.

  And even though he told himself he didn’t care, with every step towards the room his muscles tightened further.

  In the doorway he stopped.

  It wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. No one could ever have imagined this—except Liss. Bitter pride twisted through him tornado style.

  She’d done it.

  One side of the room was walled with people—the media, all in attendance this time, just as he’d wanted. And their focus was on one thing and one thing only.

  She stood in the centre of the ballroom, speaking—he had no idea what she was saying. Only one of his senses was working—sight. She was wearing one hell of a dress. The straps rested almost on the very edge of her shoulders, emphasising her collarbones. His thumb itched to rest below the ridge of the bone, fingers wanted to slide above and along the slim length. He already knew how it felt—smooth and fine but strong too.

  The neckline dropped low, a wide vee down her cleavage. In turn this emphasised the way her body curved in so tight at the waist. Her hips were slimmer—not as broad as her shoulders but still a beautiful, graceful curve. From there the material tumbled to the floor in a golden cascade.

  He didn’t know what the fabric was. But it was as if it were alive. With a gentle shimmer, it clung to and floated from her slender figure.

  He frowned—her slightly too slender figure.

  She looked so incredibly regal—and suddenly way out of his league. She spoke again and he heard her that time.

  ‘Pa
ck away your cameras, people. And prepare to party.’

  Not a single camera was lowered. Rather the shutters kept opening and closing quickly—capturing the country’s favourite young princess in full royal mode.

  She nodded her head at a waiter standing near the service doors and he swung them open. Incredible-looking wait staff filed in—one line of men, one of women. James recognised some of them from the other night but most he didn’t. And they were gorgeous. The women’s hair had been tied up at the front with the length trailing down their backs. With figure-hugging white tops, white skirts that were slim over the waist and hips but then flared out, ending just at the knee. Then it was all legs and arched feet in barely there, flimsy-heeled sandals of the kind Liss would adore. The simple look of golden tanned skin was shown to advantage by the crisp, clean white and highlighted by lengths of gold ribbon which had been wound round their figures—emphasising sensual curves and slender waists.

  Every single one was gorgeous and each made that simple look sexy. They might be wearing white, but not one of them looked as if their thoughts were completely pure. Glittering makeup added to the glamour factor.

  It took him a minute to really notice the men, but they, like the women, carried trays of glasses filled with some concoction. Only instead of white they wore black. Close-fitting tops and immaculate trousers. All clean-shaven, short-haired and a smouldering look in their eyes. Looking like the servants of night, they too seemed to be offering something more than a simple drink.

  They were all covered, there was nothing blatant—no bare boobs or hairy chests—yet there was something so sensual, so sexual about the group of beautiful young men and women lined up to serve. Nymphs and Satyrs.

  And in the centre of them all stood Liss, resplendent in the golden dress. Unlike the others all of her hair was swept up high, curls on her head were like a crown showing off her height, the luscious length of her neck.