His Defiant Mistress: The Millionaire's Rebellious Mistress / The Venetian's Midnight Mistress / The Billionaire's Virgin Mistress

His Defiant

Mistress

The Millionaire’s Rebellious Mistress

Catherine George

The Venetian’s Midnight Mistress

Carole Mortimer

The Billionaire’s Virgin Mistress

Sandra Field

About the Author

CATHERINE GEORGE was born on the border between Wales and England in a village blessed with both a public and a lending library. Catherine was fervently encouraged to read by a like-minded mother and developed an addiction to reading.

At eighteen Catherine met the husband who eventually took her off to Brazil. He worked as chief engineer of a large gold-mining operation in Minas Gerais, which provided a popular background for several of Catherine’s early novels.

After nine happy years the education of their small son took them back to Britain and soon afterwards a daughter was born. But Catherine always found time to read, if only in the bath! When her husband’s job took him abroad again she enrolled in a creative writing course, then read countless novels by Mills & Boon® authors before trying a hand at one herself. Her first effort was not only accepted, but voted best of its genre for that year.

Catherine has written more than sixty novels since and has won another award along the way. But now she has come full circle. After living in Brazil and in England’s the Wirral, Warwick and the Forest of Dean, Catherine now resides in the beautiful Welsh Marches—with access to a county library, several bookshops and a busy market hall with a treasure trove of secondhand paperbacks!

PROLOGUE

ALEXANDER MERRICK achieved the vice-chairmanship of the Merrick Group before he was thirty, but no one who worked for him was in the slightest doubt that his appointment was due to ability rather than nepotism. They soon found he ran as tight a ship as his father and his grandfather before him, but with a more humanist approach. He had made it clear from day one that the door of his top floor corner office would always be open to any member of staff with a problem, and this particular morning he sat back, ready to listen, when his assistant came in looking gloomy.

‘What’s up, Greg? Girlfriend stand you up last night?’

‘No, Alex.’ Not long out of college, Greg Harris still got a buzz from being on first-name terms with his dynamic young boss. ‘I just had a phone call. Bad news. Our bid was unsuccessful.’

‘What?’ Alex Merrick shot upright. ‘So who the hell got them?’

‘I don’t know that yet.’ Greg cleared his throat. ‘I asked my—my friend to let me know the result of the sealed bid right away, as a personal favour, which is why I’m ahead of the game, but no other details yet.’

Alex swore volubly. ‘It must be some local builder with friends in high places. He’ll probably demolish the Medlar Farm cottages and build God knows what in their place—’ He broke off, eyeing his assistant speculatively. ‘Is your friend a girl?’

Greg nodded, flushing.

Alex gave him the crooked smile that few people could resist. ‘Excellent. Take her out to dinner; charm her into finding out who got the bid. I’ll pay.’

CHAPTER ONE

THE VIEW of the sunset over sweeping lawns and tree-fringed lake was so perfect the dining room could have been part of a film set.

Sarah’s escort smiled at her in satisfaction. ‘You obviously approve of my choice, darling?’

‘Of course. Who wouldn’t?’ But she was surprised by it. Oliver normally wined and dined her in more conservative restaurants, where the cuisine was less haute than Easthope Court. ‘Is this a special occasion?’

His eyes slid away. ‘Let’s leave explanations until later. Our meal is on its way.’

The waiter set Sarah’s entrée in front of her, and with a hint of flourish removed the cover from an offering of such culinary art she looked at the plate in awe, not sure whether she should eat it or frame it. But instead of sharing that with someone who took his food as seriously as Oliver, she asked about his latest triumph in court.

Sarah listened attentively as she ate, made appropriate comments at intervals, but at last laid down her knife and fork, defeated. Artistic creation or not, the meal was so substantial she couldn’t finish it.

‘You didn’t care for the lobster?’ asked Oliver anxiously.

‘It was lovely, but I ate too much of that gorgeous bread before it arrived.’

He beckoned a waiter over. ‘Choose a pudding, then, while I excuse myself for a moment. Cheese as usual for me, Sarah.’

She gave the order and sat back, eyeing her surroundings with interest. The other women present—some young, others not—were dressed with varying success in red-carpet-type couture, but their male escorts were largely on the mature side. Though a younger man at table nearby caught her eye, if only because his head of thick, glossy hair stood out like a bronze helmet among his balding male companions. He raised his glass in smiling toast, and Sarah looked away, flushing, as Oliver rejoined her.

‘So what are we celebrating?’ she demanded, as he began on a wedge of Stilton.

‘Now, you must always remember, Sarah,’ he began, ‘that I have your best interests at heart.’

Her heart sank. ‘Go on.’

Oliver reached out a hand to touch hers. ‘Sweetheart, there’s a vacancy coming up in my chambers next month. Make me happy; give up this obsession of yours and take the job. With your logical brain I’m sure you’d enjoy legal work.’

Sarah’s colour, already high, rose a notch. ‘You mean you brought me here just to pitch the same old story? Oliver, I love you very much,’ she said with complete truth, ‘and I know you care about me, but you really must let me live my life my own way.’

‘But I just can’t believe it’s the right way!’ Oliver sat back, defeated. ‘I hate to think of you messing about with plaster and paint all day in that slum you bought.’

‘Oliver,’ she said patiently, ‘it’s what I do. It’s what I know how to do. And I love doing it. I’d be useless—and miserable—as a legal secretary, even in illustrious chambers like yours.’

‘But you’re obviously not taking care of yourself or eating properly—’

‘If you just wanted to feed me before I go back to starving in my garret you needn’t have wasted money on a place like this,’ she informed him.

‘I chose somewhere special because it’s my birthday tomorrow,’ he said with dignity. ‘I hoped you’d enjoy helping me celebrate it.’

‘Oh Oliver!’ Sarah felt a sharp pang of remorse. ‘If you’re trying to make me feel guilty you’re succeeding. I’m sorry. But I can’t take the job. Not even to celebrate your birthday.’

He nodded, resigned. ‘Ah, well, it was worth a try. We won’t let it spoil our evening. Thank you for the witty birthday card, by the way, but you shouldn’t have bought a present.’

‘Didn’t you like the cravat?’

‘Of course I liked it. But it was much too expensive—’

‘Nothing too good for my one and only godfather!’

Oliver smiled fondly. ‘That’s so sweet of you, darling, and of course I’ll wear it with pride. But you need to watch your pennies.’ He leaned nearer and touched her hand. ‘You do know, Sarah, that if you’re in need of any kind you only have to ask.’

‘Thank you, Oliver, of course I do.’ But she’d have to be in dire straits before she would.

As they got up to leave, the man Sarah had noticed earlier hurried to intercept them.

Oliver beamed as he shook the outstretched hand. ‘Why, hello there, young man. I didn’t know you were here.’

‘You were too absorbed in your beautiful companion to notice me, Mr Moore.’ He turned to Sarah with a crooked smile. ‘Hello. I’m Alex Merrick.’

Quick resentment quenched her unexpected pang of disappointment. And as if his name wasn’t enough, something in his smile made it plain he thought Oliver was her elderly—and wealthy—sugar daddy.

‘Sarah Carver,’ she returned, surprised to see comprehension flare in the piercingly light eyes in an angular face that was striking rather than good-looking.

‘Sarah is helping me celebrate my birthday,’ Oliver informed him.

‘Congratulations! It must be an important one to bring you down from London for the occasion.’

‘Not really—unless you count each day as an achievement at my age. I’ll be sixty-four come midnight,’ said Oliver with a sigh, and made a visible effort to suck in his stomach.

‘That’s just your prime, sir,’ Alex assured him. ‘Are you from London, too, Miss Carver?’

‘She is originally.’ Oliver answered for her. ‘But Sarah moved to this part of the world last year. I’ve been trying to persuade her to return to civilisation, but with no success. She’s in property development,’ he added proudly.

‘Snap. That’s partly my bag, too,’ Alex told her.

Oliver laughed comfortably. ‘Not exactly on the same scale,’ he informed Sarah. ‘Alex is the third generation of his family to run the Merrick Group.’

‘How interesting,’ she said coolly, and smiled up at Oliver. ‘Darling, it’s past my bedtime.’

‘Right,’ he said promptly, and put his arm round her to lead her away. ‘Nice seeing you again, young man. My regards to your father.’

Alex Merrick’s eyes travelled from Oliver’s arm to Sarah’s face with a look that brought her resentment to boiling point. ‘I hope we meet again.’

‘You weren’t very friendly,’ commented Oliver in the car park. ‘You might do well to cultivate young Alex, darling. The Merrick name carries clout in these parts.’

‘Not with me,’ Sarah said fiercely.

The journey home was tiring. Oliver returned to his proposition, and argued all the way, but when he paused to draw breath Sarah told him it would turn her life upside down again to move back to London.

‘I did all that in reverse not so long ago, Oliver. I don’t fancy doing it again for a while, if at all. I like living in the wilds, as you call it—’

‘But what do you do with yourself in the evenings, for God’s sake?’

Glossing over the weariness which more often than not sent her early to bed with a book, Sarah said something vague about cinema trips and concerts, hoping Oliver wouldn’t ask for details.

‘A lot different from London,’ he commented, as they reached Medlar House.

‘Which is entirely the point, Oliver. Would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thank you, darling. I’ll head straight back to Hereford. I’m meeting with a local solicitor first thing in the morning.’

She leaned across and kissed him. ‘Thank you for the wonderful dinner, and for the job offer. But do stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.’

‘I hope so,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

‘I do.’ She patted his cheek. ‘Happy birthday for tomorrow, Oliver.’

Sarah waved him off, and with a yawn made for her ground-floor retreat in a building which had once housed an elite school for girls. Advertised as a studio flat, when the school had been converted into apartments, she’d agreed to take a look at it without much hope. It had been the last on the list of remotely possible flats shown her by the estate agent, who had rattled through his patter at such speed he’d been unaware that the moment she’d walked through the door Sarah fell in love.

The agent had given her the hard sell, emphasising that it was the last available in her price range in the building, and offered interesting individual touches.

‘If you mean a ceiling four metres high and one wall composed entirely of windows,’ Sarah remarked. ‘Heat loss must be a problem.’

Crestfallen, the young man had informed her that it had once been a music room, which explained the lofty dimensions, and then he’d pointed out its view of the delightful gardens and repeated his spiel about the building’s security. Sarah had heard him out politely, and when he’d eventually run out of steam, he saw her back to her car, promising to ring her in the morning with other possibilities.

She’d forced herself to wait until he rang, praying that no one had beaten her to it overnight with the flat. When his call finally came he’d given her details of a riverside apartment. Way out of her price range, she’d told him, and then as an apparent afterthought mentioned that since there was nothing else suitable on his current list she might as well take another look at the Medlar House bedsit. He’d uttered shocked protests at the term for such a picturesque studio flat, but once they were back in the lofty, sunlit room again Sarah had listed its disadvantages as her opening shot, then begun haggling. At last the agent had taken out his phone to consult a higher authority, and agreement had been reached on a price well below the maximum Sarah had been prepared to pay to live in Medlar House—which, quite apart from its other attractions, was only a short drive from the row of farm cottages she was about to transform into desirable dwellings.

All that seemed a lifetime ago. Feeling restless after her unaccustomed evening out, Sarah loosened her hair, then sat at the narrow trestle table that served as desk, drawing board, and any other function required of it. She booted up her laptop, did a search, and gave a snort of laughter. To say that Sarah Carver and Alexander Merrick were both in property was such a stretch it was ludicrous. These days the Merrick Group also had extensive manufacturing interests, at home and abroad—and the biggest buzzword of all—it was into recycling on a global scale. She closed the laptop in sudden annoyance. It was irrational to feel so hostile still. But the look the man had given her had annoyed her intensely. Oliver was sixty-three—she glanced at her watch—sixty-four now. She was almost forty years his junior. So of course Merrick Mark Three had jumped to the wrong conclusion about Oliver’s role in her life. Her eyes kindled. As if she cared.

She went through her night-time routine in her minuscule bathroom, then climbed up to her sleeping balcony and hung up the little black dress she hadn’t worn for ages. She got into bed and stretched out to gaze down through the balustrade at the moonlight streaming through the shutters, hoping the lobster wouldn’t give her nightmares. She had to be up early next morning, as usual. The first of the cottages was coming along nicely, and once furnished it would function as a show house to tempt buyers for the others in the row. Harry Sollers, the local builder who worked with her, would be there before her, in case, as sometimes happened, he knocked off half an hour early to do a job for a friend.

When the row of cottages had gone up for sale by sealed auction Harry’s circle of cronies at his local pub had fully expected some big company to demolish them and pack as many new houses as possible on the site. When the news had broken that a developer from London had snaffled the property there had been much morose shaking of heads in the Green Man—until the landlord had surprised his clients by reporting that the property developer was a young woman, and she was looking for someone local to work on the cottages. At which point Harry Sollers—semi-retired master builder, committed bachelor and misogynist—had amazed everyone in the bar by saying he might be interested.

Sarah never ceased to be grateful that, due to Harry Sollers’ strong views on the demolition of perfectly good living accommodation, he’d agreed to abandon semi-retirement to help her turn the one-time farm labourers’ cottages into attractive, affordable homes. Gradually Harry had helped her sort out damp courses, retile the roofs, and deal with various basic faults shown up by the building survey. He had been openly sceptical about her own skills until he’d seen proof of them, but openly impressed when he first saw her plastering a wall, and completely won over the day she took a lump hammer to the boards covering up the original fireplaces.

But from the start Harry had drawn very definite lines about his own capabilities, and told Sarah she would need to employ local craftsmen for specialised jobs. He’d enlisted his nephew’s experienced help with the cottage roofs, recommended a reliable electrician to do the rewiring, and for the plumbing contacted his friend Fred Carter, who soon proved he was top-of-the-tree at his craft. The houses had begun to look like real homes once the quality fittings were in place, but to his surprise Sarah had informed Fred that she would do the tiling herself, as well as fit the cupboards in both bathrooms and kitchens.

‘I’m good at that kind of thing,’ she’d assured him, without conceit.

This news had caused a stir in the Green Man.

‘You might have to put up with a few sightseers now and again, boss, just to prove Fred wasn’t having them on,’ Harry had warned her.

He was right. Harry’s cronies had come to look. But once they’d seen her at work they’d agreed that the city girl knew what she was doing.

But much as she enjoyed her work there were days when Sarah felt low-key, and the next day was one of them—which was probably due to Oliver and his coaxing about the vacancy in his chambers. It was certainly nothing to do with the lobster, which had not, after all, given her nightmares. Nor, she assured herself irritably, was it anything to do with meeting Alex Merrick. She’d slept well and risen early, as usual. Nevertheless her mood today was dark. She would just have to work through it. Fortunately Harry was never a ray of sunshine first thing in the morning either, and wouldn’t notice. But for once she was wrong.

‘You’re early—and you don’t look so clever today,’ Harry commented.

‘I was out socialising last night,’ she informed him, and went on with the cupboard door she was hanging.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Who was the lucky lad, then?’

Sarah sometimes joined Harry for a ploughman’s in the Green Man at lunchtime, where the clientele was mainly male. Some of the regulars were retired, and came out for an hour’s chat over a pint, but the younger set were mainly tradesmen of varying kinds on their lunch-breaks. Harry had put up with a lot of teasing from the old hands about his pretty young boss, but some of the new ones tried to chat Sarah up. The more enterprising among them had even asked her out, and it had taken all the tact she possessed to refuse in a way that made no dent in local egos, so she could hardly blame Harry for being curious about her night out.

‘Much as he’d love to hear himself referred to as a lad,’ she said, with her first smile of the day, ‘we were celebrating my escort’s sixty-fourth birthday. He’s in Hereford on business for a couple of days so he drove over to take me to dinner at Easthope Court last night.’

He whistled, impressed. ‘I hear it’s pretty fancy there since it was done over—pricey too.’

‘Astronomically! I could have fed myself for a week on what Oliver paid for my meal last night. He comes down to check up on me now and then, convinced I’m starving myself to death, but usually all he asks of a restaurant is a good steak and a glass of drinkable claret.’ Sarah sighed, feeling a sudden need to confide in someone. ‘He’s a barrister by profession, Harry. He wants me to work in his chambers.’

‘Does it need building work, then?’

‘No.’ Sarah explained about the office job.

‘He thought you’d like that?’ Harry said, scratching his head. ‘Can you do typing and all the computer stuff?’

She nodded. ‘After I left college I ran the office at my father’s building firm.’

‘You did a whole lot more than that, I reckon. Your dad taught you his craft pretty good.’

‘Thank you!’ Coming from Harry, this was high praise indeed. ‘By the way,’ she added casually, ‘I met someone called Merrick last night. Do you know him?’

Harry grunted. ‘Everybody knows the Merricks. Old Edgar started off in scrap metal. A right old villain he was; so slick at making money you’d think he’d found a way to turn scrap into gold. His son George made an even bigger packet when he took over and started expanding. The family’s got a bit gentrified since Edgar’s day, with college education and all that. Easthope Court was one of their jobs. Lot of publicity at the time. Was it George you met?’

‘No. This one’s name was Alex.’

‘George’s son. Don’t know the lad myself, but word has it he’s a right ball of fire now he runs the show up here. I hear George is at the London branch these days.’ Harry’s lined blue eyes gave her a very straight look. ‘I hear a lot of things in the pub, boss, but I just listen. Nothing you say to me will go further.’

‘No need to tell me that, Harry!’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘I’ll get on with the window frames in number four, then. You’re doing a good job there,’ he added gruffly, eyeing the cupboards.

‘Thank you!’ Sarah smiled at him so radiantly he blinked. ‘How about a snack at the Green Man at lunchtime? My treat?’

‘You’re on! Betty Mason bakes pasties on Wednesdays.’

Sarah felt a lot better as she went on with her cupboard doors. She worked steadily throughout the morning, with only a short break for coffee, and got to her feet at last, back aching. She went to the door, put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle.

‘Ready, Harry? I’m starving.’

Harry chuckled as she scrambled into his pick-up.

‘What’s up?’ she demanded.

‘You don’t look much like a city girl these days, boss.’

Sarah grinned as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘The great advantage of the Green Man is not having to prettify myself to eat there. But if you’re ashamed to be seen with me in my working clothes, Mr Sollers, I can always eat my pasty in the pick-up.’

He guffawed. ‘Get away with you.’

The knot of regulars in the bar greeted Sarah with their usual friendly acceptance, which put paid to the last traces of her blue mood.

‘Your boss let you out, then, Harry?’ called some comedian.

‘Reminded her it was Betty’s day for pasties, so I hope you lot left some for us.’ Harry hoisted Sarah up on a stool at the bar, and gave their order. Fred came to join them, to ask about their progress, and Sarah willingly obliged as she tucked into flaky pastry wrapped round a savoury mixture of meat and vegetables. When it struck her that she was enjoying it far more than the elegant meal of the night before she sighed in such remorse that Fred peered under the peak of her cap.

‘Something wrong with your pasty, my dear?’

‘Nothing at all—it’s delicious.’ She explained about the meal with Oliver.

‘The man must have deep pockets if he took you to eat at Easthope Court,’ put in another man.

‘It was to celebrate his birthday, Mr Baker,’ said Sarah, and looked at him speculatively. ‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here today—’

‘He’s here every day,’ someone shouted.

‘But I’m not, so I must grab him while I can,’ she called back, grinning. ‘I hear you’re a very keen gardener, Mr Baker.’

‘I do a bit,’ he admitted warily.

‘When you can spare the time, would you come along to the cottages and give me some advice on planting?’

‘Any time you like,’ he assured her. ‘Let me get you another half.’

‘No, thanks—too much to do this afternoon,’ she said regretfully.

There was immediate interest in exactly what, and the conversation was general for a moment, until a voice with the accents of expensive education rose above the hubbub to make itself heard to the landlord.

‘I’m looking for a Miss Carver, Eddy. Has she been in here today?’

Sarah winced, wishing vainly she could make herself invisible. Resigned, she let Fred help her down from the stool and turned to face Alex Merrick. ‘You were asking for me?’