Defiant Mistress, Ruthless Millionaire

by Yvonne Lindsay

  She’d finally taken a few minutes to peruse the works around the room herself, prior to the speeches she knew Josh would lead before the auction results were announced. She paused in front of a small oil painting. The subject in the picture was faceless but dejection was evident in the slant of the subject’s shoulders. It could have been a boy or a girl—it didn’t matter.

  Callie felt a wrench deep in her heart at the picture. She remembered that feeling. The desolation. The despair. An invisible fist closed around her throat and the burn of tears welled up in the back of her eyes. The artist had done more than view the subject. Given the kids this evening was designed to support, she had no doubt the artist was the subject.

  “Powerful, isn’t it?”

  Josh’s deep voice, close to her ear, made her start in surprise. Last she’d seen he’d been three deep in discussions with some of the biggest names in New Zealand industry. The Palmers were, of course, notably absent.

  She nodded, her throat still too choked to speak, but his next words startled her even more.

  “Are you going to bid on it?”

  She turned to face him. “Are you kidding? I can’t compete with the people here.” She smiled deprecatingly. “I’m not in their league.”

  Josh appeared to consider her for a while before he tilted his head to one side. “No, you’re not, are you?”

  Even though she’d set herself up for his response she couldn’t help but bristle. Words formed on the tip of her tongue, but before she could give them voice he continued.

  “You have many more layers to you, don’t you, Callie? You should bid on the painting. You might be surprised to see what happens,” he finished enigmatically before acknowledging the hail of a well-dressed couple across the gallery floor. “Excuse me.”

  He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared at her side and Callie turned back to the picture, her teeth catching at her lower lip as she studied it again. That she wanted it was undeniable. The child on the canvas could have been her. She let her gaze roam over the colours and textures of the picture, away from the central focus and to the outer range.

  And there she noticed a golden glow, a faint ray of sunshine slanting across the sky; on the bare tree branches were the tiniest of green buds. Of growth and renewal. Of hope.

  For the first time in many years Callie suddenly felt completely inadequate. She’d have given her entire collection of shoes to be able to bid what this painting was worth to her on a personal level. Even then she’d barely scrape the surface. No, no matter how much she wanted it, there was no way she could reasonably bid on the picture. Anything less than five figures would be laughable in an atmosphere like tonight’s.

  With the discipline of years of practice, Callie resolutely turned her back on the picture and on all it portrayed.

  The balance of the evening continued smoothly, but her feet had begun to ache in their designer splendour by the time the silent auction winners were to be announced. Many guests had moved on to other, more social, activities, and the gallery no longer seethed with the press of those who wanted to be seen to be doing the right thing. Callie let a sigh of relief slide from her lungs. The evening would be over soon enough and she’d be home.

  Josh was up on the podium, ready to complete his part in the formalities, and his commanding presence brought the room to a hush. From her vantage point near the back, Callie let her gaze roam over him. He was all too easy on the eye. He spoke for fifteen minutes, although it felt more like five as his deep, strong voice held the attention of the guests effortlessly and she found herself falling under his spell. He outlined the purpose of the gallery and pledged Tremont Corporation’s renewed financial support to the scholarship fund—all to great applause.

  After handing the proceedings over to the gallery director, he threaded through the crowd to where she stood.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he said, bending his head to speak quietly in her ear.

  “But the auction results,” Callie protested.

  “Does it matter? Did you bid on Hope?”

  “Hope?”

  “The oil you were studying earlier.”

  “No.”

  Josh gave her one of his rare smiles, the type that appeared to shine from deep in his blue eyes, as if he could see directly into her soul. “Why not?”

  Callie paused under the intensity of Josh’s gaze, unsure of what to say or what to do. Her pulse kicked up a beat and her lips and throat suddenly felt dry. The noise of the crowd around them faded away until the only person in the room with her was Josh. The entrancing scent of his cologne drifted around her, luring her into its sensual snare. Eventually, she managed to force her words past her lips.

  “To be honest, I didn’t think I could bid high enough to do the artist justice.”

  Josh stepped in closer, his arm sliding around her waist, his hand resting on her hip—burning a brand of possession she didn’t want to argue.

  “I know what you mean. Let’s head out, then, hmm?”

  He guided her out of the gallery. Once past the crowds, his arm dropped back away from her side, and suddenly she felt as if she’d been cast adrift. It had been all too easy to fall into step with him, to savour the brush of his hip and thigh against her own, as they walked from the gallery. But she’d been imagining there had been more between them. She was there to do a job—specifically, a job for his uncontested rival. A tremor of regret rippled through her.

  “Cold?” Josh asked as one of the parking valets brought his car purring around to the front of the building.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  But she was anything but fine. Tonight had proven that no matter how hard she’d fought against it in the office, she was painfully and irrevocably drawn to her boss—and that made what she was there to do, and the time in which she had left to do it, doubly more difficult.

  She was silent on the journey home. Oblivious to the streaking lights passing them by from other vehicles along the road. It wasn’t long before they pulled up outside her town house. Josh turned off the ignition, the growl of the Maserati’s motor lingering like a discordant echo in the still night air.

  “Thank you for this evening,” Callie said, opening the door herself and alighting from the car as quickly as she could.

  She didn’t want to wait for him to step around the vehicle and open her door or even have him touch her, because she didn’t want to question too deeply what she’d do if she did.

  She’d been working for him for a fortnight now. Two weeks where she’d done her best to complete her tasks to the highest standards. Fourteen days where—instead of looking for an avenue to lead to answers as to who the Palmer Enterprises leak was—she’d been battling her growing attraction to a man who was, without a doubt, the one person on this planet to whom she shouldn’t be drawn.

  Callie started up the path to her front door. She heard Josh’s car door open, then another sound. Her key was in her hand. Only another couple of metres more and she’d be inside.

  “Callie, hold up a minute. I have something for you.”

  Josh’s voice arrested her retreat and she took a breath to quell the sudden butterflies that rose in a maddening flock from the pit of her stomach. She turned to face him.

  Her eyes widened as she saw the “something” he’d mentioned. A flat rectangle, wrapped in brown paper.

  “I know I didn’t give you a whole lot of notice about tonight. I’d like you to have this, as a token of my appreciation.”

  “That’s not necessary. You pay me well for my job. I—”

  “Callie,” he interrupted. “Take the damn parcel, okay?”

  Callie’s eyes locked with his and beneath the blue depths she saw something more than what had been there earlier. Gone was the lazy humour. Instead, it was replaced by a blazing blue flame. His eyes dropped to her mouth and the flame burned brighter, before meeting her gaze again. As if under his control she accepted the parcel, her fingers brushing his briefly as she did.


  Josh gave her a short nod. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  Then, in a roar, he was gone. Callie stood and watched his retreating taillights, then turned to let herself inside and locked her door carefully behind her. She rested her head against the door. He’d wanted to kiss her, she was sure of it. Kiss her and more. She was no naive ingénue. She knew desire when she saw it.

  So why hadn’t he acted on it? Why hadn’t he breached the distance between them and taken her mouth with his? Her lips had burned under the touch of his stare, burned for the reality and not the dream.

  Callie straightened up from the door and forced herself to pull her thoughts, and her hormones, under control. She stepped through into her sitting room off the small hallway and dropped her evening bag on the coffee table. Then, carefully, she laid the package on the sofa. Her fingers were uncharacteristically clumsy as she plucked at the tape securing the package until, finally, she pulled away the paper.

  Callie pushed her fisted hand to her mouth to stem the cry of recognition as the painting was finally revealed.

  “Hope.”

  He’d given her Hope.

  Four

  S aturday morning dawned with a hint of rain on the horizon. Already the air outside was warming and the weather promised to be hot and sticky with the coming showers. What she wouldn’t give for a lead-up to Christmas in a cooler climate for a change. Callie padded down the stairs and walked through to her kitchen, automatically switching on the jug for the mandatory cup of Earl Grey tea that drove the sluggishness of sleep from her body each morning.

  Well, it would, had she been able to sleep. When she hadn’t been tangled in her sheets, tossing and turning, her dreams had been fractured by overtones of the night before. Of the sensation of Josh Tremont’s hand on her back, of the scent of his subtle cologne in the confines of his car. Of the heat of his gaze before he’d left her at the front door and of her own body’s insistent response.

  Every workday for the past two weeks she’d managed to keep a lid on her reaction to him. And then he had to go and mess that all up by insisting she accompany him to the gallery.

  Unexpected anger rose swiftly from the pit of her stomach. He’d gone too far giving her the painting last night. No matter how much she’d wanted it, a person just didn’t do things like that—at least not in her world. In her world every gain had its price. Some you could afford, some you couldn’t, and this was very definitely one she couldn’t afford on any level.

  As she waited for the pot of tea to draw she stomped through to her sitting room and stopped to stare at the painting she’d left propped up on the seat of her cream leather two-seater. Her chest constricted as her eyes locked on the figure.

  It was impossible. No, Josh Tremont was impossible. There was no way she could accept this gift from him. She’d return it to him today. Monday would be too late. If she held on to it a moment longer than necessary she might just give in and keep it and there was no way her pride would allow her to do that. She was already in over her head repaying a debt she’d never asked for. She certainly didn’t want to owe Josh as well.

  She flung a glare at the mantel clock that ticked quietly in the background. Was seven-thirty too early to call your boss on a Saturday morning? With a huff of air through pursed lips, she conceded that any time before Monday was probably too early.

  Nine. She’d phone him at nine on the dot and sort out some time to drop it back to him.

  Decision made, her head finally felt clearer. She could almost enjoy her low-fat cereal and milk, sweetened with a scattering of dried apricots. Almost. By the time the clock had ticked slowly to nine she had already showered, dressed, stripped her bed and remade it, and her first load of laundry was nearly ready to be hung on the line.

  The machine beeped discreetly from the annexe in her garage, letting her know the cycle was finished just as she picked up her phone and punched in Josh’s home number.

  The repetitive burr-burr of the ringtone was almost hypnotic. Clearly he wasn’t home, but didn’t he have staff, or even an answering machine? She was on the verge of hanging up when the phone was picked up.

  “Tremont.”

  The two syllables hammered down the phone with no-nonsense decisiveness.

  “It’s Callie.”

  Suddenly the tone in his voice changed to the warm texture of liquid honey. “Ah, Callie. Give me a minute, I’ve just got out the pool and I’m dripping everywhere.”

  She heard the receiver clatter to a hard surface and a rustle of fabric. While she waited, her mind went into overdrive, imagining how Josh would look sleek and wet and straight from the pool. His dark hair would be slicked back, exposing the broad strong plane of his forehead and rivulets of water would track down the corded strength of his neck and over his powerful shoulders. She threw the brakes on her thoughts before her imagination went any further.

  There was a faint scraping sound through the earpiece and then his voice filled her ear again.

  “How are you this morning?”

  “I’m fine. Look, I should get right to the point. I really appreciate what you did with the painting last night but I can’t accept it.”

  “Why is that, Callie?” Her name rippled through the handset of her phone in his rich, deep voice, sending a stroke of something forbidden down the back of her neck. “I thought you liked the picture.”

  “I do, it’s just…”

  “Just?” he prompted.

  How did you tell your employer that such a gift was inappropriate without putting his nose out of joint? Especially since she had to inveigle herself into his world more effectively than she had already done if she was to garner any of the information Irene would no doubt be pumping her for soon.

  So far Josh had appeared to be exactly what the world expected. Charming, successful, driven—a man who gave 100 percent at all times and expected the same in return. As an employer, Callie couldn’t fault him. In fact, she’d almost begun to wonder if he wasn’t just particularly gifted at reading the market and hadn’t had to resort to corporate espionage to undermine the Palmers.

  Josh continued. “You have a strong connection with the picture. Am I wrong?”

  Callie drew in a sharp breath at his acuity. “No, you weren’t wrong.”

  “Then it’s yours.”

  “No. It’s worth far too much.”

  “And if I think you’re worth that, and more?”

  “I—” She faltered.

  “Don’t make a big deal of it, Callie. You liked the painting, I bid on it on your behalf and my bid won.”

  He made it sound so simple. She liked the painting, connected to it, therefore it was hers. The fact that the price tag had probably run into five figures had nothing to do with it. Her mind scrambled for logic, suddenly latching on to his very words to give her valid cause to return the picture to him.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I can’t accept it. I do identify with the painting, perhaps a bit too much.”

  “It upsets you?”

  “Yes,” she lied, catching her lower lip between her teeth and biting hard before she changed her mind.

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “I know,” she hurried to say. “And I appreciate the gesture, really, I do. But I’d like to return it to you. Today if possible.”

  He didn’t answer at first, then she heard a soft exhalation. “Dinner, my place, six-thirty.”

  “But—”

  Dinner? With her boss? At his home?

  “I’ll see you then. Don’t dress up.”

  The rapid-fire beeps indicating a disconnected tone signalled that he’d ended the call. Did she really have to go? Callie replaced her handset in its charging station and walked to the sitting room. Her eyes fixed on the painting. If she really meant to give it back, she would have to.

  Callie alighted from her parked car and tucked the rewrapped package firmly under one arm. He’d said not to dress up, but she’d felt the need to make s
ome effort. The floating hand-painted silk panels of her pale emerald sundress swirled around her legs as her feet, clad for once in flats, marched toward Josh’s front door.

  When she’d arrived at the entrance to his driveway she’d almost chickened out, telling herself she should have waited until Monday. But, she had to admit, his summons for dinner gave her the perfect opportunity to observe him in a different setting—and she needed to find some grounding in her observations very soon.

  The driveway to the mansion was imposing enough with its boxed hedging trimmed to immaculate precision, but the house itself was something else entirely. The twin-arched portico of his home stood austerely before her and an entire squadron of butterflies went into battle formation in her stomach.

  Everything was so incredibly perfect. Not a line or even so much as a leaf out of place. He must have a whole fleet of gardeners keeping it all so pristine.

  “Are you going to stand out there all day enjoying the garden or did you want to come inside?”

  Callie jumped. She hadn’t even heard the front door swing open. She gave Josh a half smile.

  “Your gardens are very…” She faltered. “Beautiful,” she finally said.

  It was the truth, they were beautiful. But despite their perfection she missed the exuberance of colour and shape she was used to seeing in a spring garden. These precisely clipped hedges and trees lacked something.

  Soul. That was it. While there was growth in abundance, there was no life in what she saw. It was as though everything was about appearances and not about personal pleasure.

  “But you don’t like them, do you?” Josh leaned against one of the cream-coloured pillars supporting the arches at his front door.

  “It’s not that,” Callie said carefully. “They are lovely, just a little too controlled for my liking.”

  “And you prefer things more uncontrolled?”

  There was a wealth of innuendo in Josh’s tone and Callie felt a flush of warmth rise up her throat and spread through her cheeks. Heavens, she hadn’t blushed in years!