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.