She closed her eyes and nodded dumbly. And then she felt something brush her lips. Something warm. Soft yet firm. Every fiber of her being was crying out for Zach to touch her, hold her and make passionate love to her….

She’s his in the bedroom, but he can’t buy her love…

The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality.

Live the dream with more MISTRESS TO A MILLIONAIRE titles by some of your favorite Harlequin Presents^® authors.

In the Billionaire’s Bed
Sara Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘HI, EVERYONE.’

Catherine tried to sound bright but failed. As she eased her narrow boat alongside Tom’s massive Dutch barge she could see from her friends’ faces that the rumours she’d heard in Saxonbury town were probably true.

Tom, Steve, Nick and Dudley rose from the spacious well of the foredeck, looking alarmingly sympathetic. That made things worse. Her stomach did an impromptu roll of its own accord.

Now she had to face the fact that if Tresanton Island had been sold then her immediate future lay in the hands of the new owner.

Turning her head, she looked back longingly at the beautiful island further up river. She’d had no legal right to be there, even though she’d had the mooring for the past three years. That hadn’t mattered with the tolerant and genial Edith Tresanton as her landlady. But ever since Edith’s death there had been an air of uncertainty about her situation.

Willing hands caught the ropes she tossed. Hitching up her long skirt, she let The Boys—as she called them—haul her on board. Her gypsy-black pre-Raphaelite hair escaped from its binding and she deftly fastened it again, her sweet, fragile-boned face an unusual pallor.

‘Been talking about you,’ Tom said in greeting. ‘Cuppa?’

She shook her head and perched apprehensively on the deck lid. Steve gave her a friendly kiss and wasted no time getting to the point.

‘You know the island’s got a new owner?’ he asked anxiously.

Her heart sank. ‘I suspected it. That means I could be in trouble,’ she said, her hopes disappearing into her tiny size three’s. She rubbed suddenly damp palms on the thin cotton of her flowing skirt. ‘What do you know?’ she asked. ‘Have the people moved in? I didn’t see a car on the bank when I came past.’

‘Removal van’s been and gone. Local traders say a bossy, yuppie London woman’s taken it over,’ Tom answered, spiralling Catherine’s spirits down still further. ‘Fancy yuk-yellow sports car, all chrome and turbo thrust and so’s she. City suit, egg-whisk hair, killer heels and an elaborately painted face.’

‘Not exactly a kindred spirit,’ she muttered.

She’d hoped that a nature lover would buy Tresanton Island. Who else would want somewhere so isolated, so rural? A nature lover would have liked having narrow boats around. Would have considered it romantic. The new owner didn’t sound as if she’d be too empathetic.

‘Yeah. Not our sort—or Edith’s,’ he grunted. ‘A really bossy type. She’s moved her stuff in and cleaned everyone out of expensive gourmet provisions—after screeching with shock-horror because Saxonbury doesn’t stock wheat grass.’ He grinned. ‘Some bright spark directed her to a field for the grass and she went ballistic, calling him an ignorant peasant! That’s all we know.’

Catherine managed a smile then released a huge breath of resignation. It sounded as though there would definitely be changes to the island—and to Edith’s house. The manor’s charming, countrified air would probably be transformed with the addition of a stainless steel kitchen and futuristic technology. And the island laid to lawn.

But what of her? Her wistful gaze lingered on her boat’s scarlet cabin roof cluttered with flower boxes, assorted chimneys and narrow boat paraphernalia. Traditional in style and wonderfully cosy, the narrow boat had been the ideal solution for somewhere cheap to live and work in an expensive area. In all her twenty-six years she’d never felt so insecure.

‘Yellow car’s coming along the lane,’ warned Steve, making everyone sit up sharply.

The colour screamed its yellowness so successfully that it was visible half a mile away. They watched it bumping slowly along. Catherine’s heart bumped too. By the time she motored back to the island and moored her boat the new owner would be in residence.

She stood up shakily, her mouth set. Perhaps she’d be allowed to stay. Edith had let her have a small patch of ground for growing vegetables. And she’d liked to see Catherine’s chickens roaming freely. Maybe this yuppie owner would be equally charmed.

‘Thanks for the information,’ she said, determined to fight her corner. ‘I’d better introduce myself and see where I stand. There’s no point in hanging around and imagining what’s going to happen to me.’

‘Want us to come as your “heavies”?’ suggested Steve, flexing his muscles and adopting a mock-belligerent pose.

She smiled gratefully. Each one of them had helped her enormously in the early days, when the workings of a narrow boat were a mystery to her. All The Boys were poor, but they had good hearts and would do anything for her.

Dwarfed by Steve, she rested her small hand on the thin sleeve of his hole-ridden jumper and made a mental note to knit him another before winter came. If she was still there…

‘I’ll let you know,’ she replied. ‘First I’ll appeal to her better nature. But keep the knuckle-dusters handy in case she hasn’t got one,’ she joked feebly.

‘Get into her good books. Find her some wheat grass,’ suggested Tom drily.

She gave a shaky little laugh. ‘Fat chance!’

‘And if she says your clients can’t use the bridge, or tells you to go?’ Steve asked.

She sucked in a wobbly breath. They all knew that moorings were like rocking horse droppings. Nonexistent.

The thought hit her like a punch in the stomach. It would be the end of her idyllic life. Hello grotty flat in some crime-ridden ghetto. And she felt panic setting in because it would take years to build up her client-base again.

‘I’d have no choice but to leave,’ she answered.

‘Good luck,’ the men chorused with sympathy as she clambered back on board and cast off.

‘Thanks,’ she managed to choke out.

Remarkably, she focused her mind on the tricky task of doing the watery equivalent of a three-point-turn where the river widened. With her stomach apparently full of jitterbugging butterflies competing for the World Title, she straightened the boat up and headed for home on the far side of the island.

Luck? She let out a low groan. Judging from the information about the new owner she’d need something nearer to a miracle.

CHAPTER TWO

ZACHARIAH TALENT didn’t notice the sheet of bluebells which were generously trying to obliterate the woodland floor. In fact, he didn’t even register the existence of the wood itself.

Similarly, hedgerows passed by in a blur of white May blossom, while the verges quite fruitlessly boasted stately pink foxgloves, rising like rockets above the masses of buttery primulas.

City man from the top of his expensively cut dark hair to his polished black shoes, Zach remained oblivious to any of these rural delights.

‘Pretty countryside. Shame about the yokels. They’re dire, I can tell you. Look at that idiot,’ his PA remarked sarcastically, swerving to avoid a lone walker.

‘Uh,’ Zach grunted.

Without looking up from the laptop computer balanced on his knees, he continued to read off a succession of figures into his mobile phone, his trade-mark frown drawing his hard dark brows together.

‘Nearly there, Zach,’ the soignée Jane cooed breathily. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’

Sharply he put Hong Kong on hold and glanced at his PA. She flashed him a smile that seemed worryingly warm. Never one to mix business with pleasure, he met it with his habitual, emotionless stare, his grey eyes cold and forbidding.

Was it happening again? he thought bleakly. And, if so, why did the women he worked with always imagine themselves in love with him? It wasn’t as if he gave them any encouragement. Far from it. He couldn’t be more distant if he tried.

‘It’s just a house. Bricks and mortar. An investment,’ he said curtly.

‘Oh, it’s more than that!’ she declared, alarming him even further with the mingled look of rapture and slyness on her face. ‘It has real character. A home for a family.’ There was a significant pause during which his irritation level increased several notches and then, in the absence of any comment from him, Jane hurried on. ‘It needs modernising, of course. Better facilities all round. But the potential’s there. Huge, airy rooms to set off your elegant antiques and furnishings—and its grounds run down to the River Saxe—’

‘So you said,’ he interrupted, cutting off her estate agent eulogy in mid-flow.

Mentally noting that he might soon have to advertise for a new PA, Zach dealt with his ringing phone, bought a tranche of well-priced bonds on the Hong Kong market and closed a profitable deal on some utilities shares.

‘Have you any idea why Mrs Tresanton left you the house in her will?’ Jane ventured curiously when he’d wrapped the call.

‘No relatives. No one close,’ he replied in his usual curt manner.

But it had been a surprise and he still had no idea why Edith had favoured him. He wasn’t exactly the country type.

To avoid Jane’s unsettling dreamy expression, he looked out of the window and scowled because his headache was getting worse.

The scenery seemed to leap at him, demanding his attention. He had an impression of an explosion of greenery that was almost unnerving.

They were driving along a pot-holed lane beside the river which looked utterly still and so smooth that it could have been enamelled the same blue as the sky. Saxe blue perhaps, he thought idly. He remembered that Edith had often talked of its beauty and had nagged him to call. There’d never been the time, of course.

She had been a good client of his. Almost a mother to him. His mouth tightened in an effort to control the bitter memory of his own mother’s death seventeen years ago, a few months after his father had suffered a fatal stroke.

Odd, how overpowering his grief had been. He’d been eighteen then, but had barely known his parents. They’d both worked so hard for his betterment that he’d been a latch-key kid from the age of five and used to looking after himself. But when they’d died he’d suddenly become truly alone in the world.

Perhaps that was why he had become fond of Edith. Normally he didn’t get close to his clients, preferring to devote himself to managing their financial affairs as creatively and as securely as possible.

But Edith had been different. Although she’d mothered him with constant reprimands about his hectic work schedules, she’d also made him laugh with her odd, eccentric ways during their monthly meetings in London. And laughter was in short supply in his busy life.

‘I hope you like the house,’ Jane said a little nervously, parking her banana yellow Aston Martin on a small tarmac area beside the river. And more petulantly, ‘I just wish you’d checked it over first, before asking me to arrange for all your stuff to be moved in.’

‘No time free. Not with those back-to-back meetings in the States. I’m sure you’ve settled me in very well,’ he retorted crisply, leaping out and looking around for Tresanton Manor.

To his surprise, there was nothing to be seen but the placid river, some black duck things with white blobs on their foreheads, clumps of trees and bushes on a nearby island and stretches of unkempt fields. Apart from the rather piercing trill of birdsong the place seemed eerily quiet. The lack of traffic bothered him. It had implications.

‘So where is it?’ he demanded, feeling decidedly out of place in his sharply tailored business suit and fashionable purple shirt.

Jane teetered a little on her spindly heels, equally incongruous in her formal jacket and tight skirt. Tighter than usual, he suddenly realised. And…had she ever shown cleavage before? Help, he thought. Trouble ahead.

‘Er…the house is over the bridge.’ Meekly she indicated the narrow plank affair that led from the bank to the island.

Zach’s mouth fell open. He put a hand to his throbbing temple.

‘Over…?’ With difficulty he mastered his shock. ‘You’re not telling me that the house is on…an…island?’ he asked with cold incredulity.

Jane looked at him in panic. ‘Zach! You must have read the deeds! Tresanton Manor and Tresanton Island—’

‘No!’ He glared. How could she have ever thought this place was suitable? ‘That’s what I employ you for. To summarise everything. To identify the crucial points. And I think I’d call an island a crucial point, wouldn’t you? Where’s the road across?’ he rapped out.

‘There isn’t one,’ Jane replied in a small voice. ‘We have to walk from here—’

‘We what…? I don’t believe this!’ he muttered. ‘You expect me to park my Maserati here in the open—when I eventually get it back from the garage—to be vandalised by any idle yob who passes?’

‘I don’t think it’s that kind of area…’ Jane began nervously.

‘Every area is that kind!’ Zach muttered, thoroughly disenchanted with Edith’s house already. He could imagine what it would be like, stuck here on a wet wintry day with his bored son, unable to walk straight from an integral garage into the warmth of a welcoming house. Hell. Now what? He’d promised Sam a house with a garden. ‘I can’t stay here. I’ll have to hunt for something else,’ he added.

‘But you can’t do that, remember?’

Zach groaned. He recalled Edith’s peculiar requirement, which had seemed typically nutty but acceptable at the time:

…bequeath Zachariah Talent my house and all its contents, to live in for at least a year, otherwise the house is to be given to the first person he sees when he sets foot on the island.

Unbelievable. The milkman could end up owning two million’s worth of real estate! If there was a milkman in this uninhabited outback, he thought sourly.

‘OK. So I’ll come just on weekends and camp out,’ he growled.

He couldn’t disappoint Sam. But this wasn’t what he’d had in mind at all. He wanted proximity to burger bars, cinemas and zoos. How else did you entertain an eight-year-old?

‘Jane!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘What the devil are those scruffy boats doing there?’ he demanded, an extraordinary depth of disappointment making him want to lash out at anyone and anything.

She followed his scowl which directed her to the huddled boats, further down-river.

‘Canal boats. Or are they called narrow boats? I believe Inland Waterways allows them to tie up there,’ she replied helpfully.

Zach’s mouth hardened like a trap. They’d be a security risk. Slowly he scanned the area, his expression becoming grimmer as he realised that Jane had also conveniently omitted to tell him that the house was in the middle of nowhere. The jagged pains in his head increased.

This was an unbelievable mess! He’d made a terrible mistake in delegating something this important!

Cursing himself for letting Jane handle everything, he was pragmatic enough to know that there wasn’t much he could do for now.

All right. He’d grit his teeth and use the house on weekends for the required year, but no way was he going to rest until there were decent paths and safety rails to stop his son from falling into the river.

Nor was he going to live permanently on an island where goodness knew who could easily leap from a boat and merrily rob him of his entire art collection.

‘Get on to the garage and have my car delivered here as soon as possible,’ he rapped out. ‘I’m dealing with this mess personally, so cancel any engagements till further notice. I’ll e-mail you with the improvements that I decide will be necessary before the house goes on the market. And find me something more suitable in the meantime where I can live and secure my valuables. In a city. Near restaurants. A gym. Theatres. Understand? Keys!’ Peremptorily he held out his hand, knowing he was being unreasonably curt. ‘Please,’ he growled as the flustered Jane fumbled anxiously in her bag.

She was a good PA. But ever since she’d viewed Tresanton Manor there had been a light in her eye that had boded ill. She was ready to nest and he was in her sights. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to choose sofas and curtains with anyone ever again.

Choking back an urge to rant and rail that his plans had gone awry and his son was unlikely to bond with him in this rural hell, he grabbed his laptop, bade Jane a curt goodbye and strode over the bridge, wondering with some desperation if he would ever win his son’s love.

He’d been banking on this house to help achieve that goal. And only now did he realise how important it was to him that he was loved by his child. Of course, he’d talked about his son’s indifference to Edith, but he’d never let her know how deeply he was hurt. Or even admitted it to himself.

He felt a heavy ache in his heart. Pain tightened his mouth and burned in his charcoal eyes. One day his son would hug him, he vowed, instead of treating him with cool reserve.

Women he could do without in his life. All the ones he’d met socially had rung up pound signs in their eyes when they knew who he was.

And none of the women he’d dated had been able to cope with the realities of his hectic work-load. Nor had his ex-wife. But he wanted to give his son financial security, and you didn’t get rich—or stay rich—dancing attendance on females and taking them out shopping.

In a thoroughly bad mood at the collapse of his dreams, he stomped along the muddy path, occasionally ducking his head to avoid being attacked by the boughs of apple trees. You didn’t have such problems with pavements.

He couldn’t understand why Edith had thought she was doing him a favour by forcing him to live here for a year. How could she call this place a paradise? he wondered grumpily.

And then he noticed the woman.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE was walking ahead of him through the orchard. No, drifting. He stopped dead in his tracks, brought up short by what he saw.

She must have heard his approach because, slender as a flexing wand, she slowly turned to face him, her small face so delicate and fey that he wondered if he was hallucinating. Tiny and graceful, she stood up to her ankles in a sea of buttercups and she looked as though she had just stepped out of a medieval illustration.

Not normally fanciful, he tried to understand why he’d had this impression. It could have been her long, close-fitting skirt flaring out from below the knee, or the long-sleeved soft cream top that hugged her slim figure like a second skin.

Or perhaps it was the hair that made her look like a modern day Guinevere. It was black and cascaded in thick waves down her lissom back from an imprisoning twist of…

He narrowed his eyes in surprise. She’d caught up her hair at the nape of her long neck with a rope of living greenery. Ivy, or something. Entwined with real flowers. Weird.

A hippie flower child, he decided, and scowled. Maybe from one of those boats. Spying out the land. Instinctively he fingered the scar on his forehead.

After the unpleasant experience of a burglary and two muggings—one of which had involved a woman who’d diverted his attention with a plausible sob story—he’d learnt to be suspicious where itinerant strangers were concerned. Even medieval hippies as tiny as this one.

In London you didn’t look strangers in the eye. Never wore an expensive watch. Walked quickly everywhere, locked your car while driving, kept the car revved at traffic lights and stayed alert at all times. That’s how you survived in the City.

‘You’re on my land!’ he growled, deliberately projecting menace.

Her placid expression didn’t alter. She remained very still and calm, as if waiting for him to approach. Much to his surprise, he did. Usually people came to him.

As he glowered his way towards her a small hand came out in a meek greeting.

‘I’m Catherine Leigh. How do you do?’

It was a sweet, gentle voice and before he knew it he had taken the dainty, fluttering fingers in his and was muttering less irritably, ‘Zach Talent.’

Had he noticed how nervous she was? Hastily she retracted her fingers from the firm, decisive grip and clasped them behind her back so that he didn’t see how badly they were shaking.

‘You…said this was your island,’ she began huskily, her face puzzled.

‘Apparently it is,’ he replied, his mouth clamping shut into a hard, exasperated line as if that fact didn’t please him one bit. His intimidating frown deepened and it seemed that his eyes glinted with shards of icy anger.

‘Oh!’

She considered this, deciding that she’d rather deal with the woman with egg-whisk hair and killer heels than this elegantly clad grouch. Then she brightened. The woman must be his wife. Better to wait and talk to her. ‘Are you on your own?’ asked the owner of the frown.

He turned to scan the undergrowth as if marauding bandits might leap out at any minute.

‘Yes. Just me,’ she replied quietly.

‘Hmm.’ He relaxed his guard a fraction. ‘So what are you doing here?’ he shot out.

‘I came to speak to your wife,’ Catherine told him with absolute truth.

‘Did you?’ He sounded unconvinced for some inexplicable reason.

She continued to gaze at him with a pleasant, noncommittal expression on her face and was relieved to see the deep line between his brows easing a little. She noticed a long scar on his forehead and wondered apprehensively how he’d acquired it.

‘Can I see her? Is she in?’

‘No.’

How to win friends and influence people, she thought drily. He really was the most surly of men!

‘Then I think I’ll come back later when she’s at home,’ she suggested gravely.

‘No, you don’t. Wait!’ The command was barked out just as she turned to go.

Caught off-guard as she whirled around, her wide-eyed look of utter surprise seemed to take him unawares too. For a split second she thought his steely eyes had softened to a misty grey.

Then she realised it must have been a trick of the light. When she looked again they were hard and shuttered with no hint of his feelings at all.

‘You’ll talk to me,’ he said sharply. ‘Let’s see if you can come up with a convincing excuse for being here.’

‘Of course I can!’ she replied in surprise, not allowing herself to be riled by his rudeness.

‘In that case, I’m not standing here knee-deep in muck,’ he exaggerated. ‘Come to the house.’

Without waiting for her response to this arrogant order, Zach Talent strode off down the path, his shiny leather shoes squelching in the mud.

Catherine hesitated and then, before she knew it, she was following. She felt almost as if she had been drawn by a magnet. And as she walked and marvelled at the man’s compelling authority she ruefully prepared to tug her forelock. A lot.

She heaved a sigh. Somehow she felt it wouldn’t help even if she tugged out handfuls of hair in the process.

Zach was clearly one of those suspicious types who imagined everyone was trying to pull a fast one. He’d looked at her as if she might be planning something evil.

From his manner, she reckoned that he also liked to be in control. He wasn’t the kind of man to do anyone a favour. For him, she suspected that it would be a matter of honour not to show any sign of weakness by granting concessions to any passing peasant.

Anxiously she studied his taut body as he strode rapidly along, rocketing out staccato orders to someone on his mobile phone as if every second and every word was precious and not to be wasted by adding pleasantries.

With gloom in her heart, she hurried after him through Edith’s—Zach’s!—beautiful wild-life garden. And she wondered how long it would be before Killer Heels and The Frown strimmed every blade of grass within an inch of its life and installed soulless carpet bedding. Perhaps even artificial turf and security lights. With a helipad.

She mourned for the island’s bleak future. Lifting her bowed head, she listened to the insistent warble of a blackcap, high on its perch in a lemon-scented azalea. It was joined by the unmistakable trill of a robin, singing its heart out from an oak tree.

Ring doves were cooing lovingly from the gnarled old mulberry tree and occasionally she heard a watery scuffle as a mallard drake enthusiastically courted a lady friend.

She and Zach were making their way through the rhododendron walk. Here, the peeling trunks arched over their heads like arms reaching out to embrace one another. In a few weeks the walk would be a blaze of colour.

The perfume of the lilies of the valley beneath made her catch her breath in wonder and she believed that, although Zach’s ear was still attached to his phone, even he had slowed his relentlessly brisk stride to savour the beauty of the garden.

Still holding her breath, she waited till he reached the glade. And was pleased to see that he had stopped, briefly looking around. But her pleasure was short-lived. When she quietly came to stand beside him, she realised that the man was a heathen after all.

‘Sell,’ he was curtly instructing some hapless minion, his hand massaging the back of his neck abstractedly. ‘And let’s have your investment strategy for the Far East by the end of the day…’

Barbarian! Infuriated by his insensitivity, she firmly shut him out. They were on different planets. This could be the last time she enjoyed the poignantly familiar sight that met her eyes, and she wanted to savour it to the full.

Bluebells had colonised the grassy glade, creating a sea of sapphire waves as the breeze stirred the nodding bells. The blossom-laden branches of ancient apple and pear trees bowed down almost to the shifting patches of blue, but where the path ran, ornamental Japanese cherry trees formed a vista to the house.

Framed dramatically, and with the shedding cherry blossom fluttering to the ground like confetti before it, the lovely Georgian manor house basked in the sun, its honey stone walls glowing as if they’d been dipped in liquid gold.

Entranced, she looked up at Zach for his reaction, hoping that he’d been stirred by the glory of it all. But with his frown resolutely in place he was intently tapping in a new number on his wretched mobile.

‘Tim? About those Hedge Funds,’ he growled, giving his mud-spattered shoes a basilisk stare.

She despaired, doubting that the funds were a charitable donation to the preservation of England’s beautiful country hedges.

He’d seen nothing. Not the rich dark throats of the dazzling white azaleas brushing his jacket, or the ladies fingers, violets, forget-me-nots and scarlet pimpernel which were shyly peeping from the undergrowth beside the path.

Deaf to everything but the grinding machine of business, he’d heard nothing of the jubilant birds filling the island with sweet song. And he was too busy sniffing out a deal to register the mingled fragrances that drifted on the slight breeze, or the musty, warm aroma that arose from the leaf litter in the surrounding woodland.

Edith’s heaven was totally lost on him. Catherine watched sadly as he strode on, discussing High Fidelity Bonds instead of being alive to the wonders of the natural world around him. She felt a wave of sadness jerk at her chest. He would never love this place as she did.

It was small consolation that he hadn’t ploughed straight through the bluebells, but had skirted the edge. He wasn’t a total heathen then. But she could see that he would have no empathy for Edith’s carefully rampant style of gardening.

Zach and his wife were obviously people with different values and priorities. Sophisticates, who lived the fast life of the City.

Catherine knew instinctively that they would definitely not approve of the way she earned her living. Nor would they be sympathetic towards a woman who chose to live on a boat like a water gypsy.

Her face fell. She might as well accept now that she’d probably be hurled out on her ear. She’d be obliged to wander the rivers and canals of England until she found a vacant mooring that she could afford. And then she’d have to start building up her clientele all over again.

She bit her lip, trying to stop herself from crying with frustrated anger. And she wondered crossly why this man had taken on Tresanton Manor when it was so patently wrong for him.

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