The Millionaire's Mistress. Miranda LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER ONE

      HE WATCHED her from the safety of distance, annoyed with himself for watching her at all.

      She was cavorting in the pool with a group of young bucks, revelling in their admiration, flirting outrageously with all of them.

      He couldn’t take his eyes off her any more than they could, his narrowed gaze captivated by that long tawny blonde hair, those flashing blue eyes and that lushly laughing mouth.

      The laughter died on her lips when one of the young men playfully pulled her under the water. She came up spluttering, struggling to push the mass of thick wet hair out of her face. Whirling away from her admirers, she swam with petulant strokes over to the ladder, where she hauled herself upwards, her nose in the air, water cascading from her curves—her perfectly proportioned, glisteningly gorgeous curves.

      Once out of the pool, she flipped her hair over and slowly wrung it out like a towel, bending forward as she did so, her breasts almost spilling out of her bikini top, which was slightly askew.

      He cursed as he felt his flesh automatically respond. She was everything he desired—and despised. A high-spirited, high-class rich bitch, with beauty to burn, a body to die for, and a soul undoubtedly as spoilt and selfish as sin.

      He didn’t know her name. He didn’t need to. It would be something like Tiffany, or Felicity. Maybe Jacqueline. Perhaps even another Stephany.

      Her name didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. What mattered was that he wasn’t yet immune to her type.

      God, would he never learn?

      His sigh was weary. He should not have come. This sort of empty partying was not for him. He’d grown past it. He wanted more these days. And he wouldn’t find more here.

      Putting his drink down on a nearby table, he turned from the window and went in search of his host.

      ‘But the night’s still young!’ Felix exclaimed when his esteemed guest said his goodbyes.

      ‘Sorry,’ he returned. ‘It’s been a long week.’

      ‘You work too hard at that bank of yours.’

      ‘Undoubtedly.’

      ‘You should learn to relax more, Marcus,’ came the unwelcome advice. ‘Why not stay a little while longer? Have another drink and I’ll introduce you to the Montgomery girl.’

      “The Montgomery girl?’

      ‘Justine Montgomery. I saw you watching her a moment ago. Not that I blame you. She’s a peach. Ripe and ready for the picking.’

      Justine...

      Yes, that suited. It had a snooty air to it, just like its owner. As for her being ripe and ready for the picking... Marcus only just managed to suppress a cynical laugh. He had no illusions about the Justine Montgomerys of this world. The odds were she’d been picked from the tree many years before. Picked and handled and devoured in every way possible.

      He’d met plenty of Justines over the past ten years or so. He’d even married one.

      A small shudder ran through him at the memory.

      ‘I don’t think so, Felix. Girls like Miss Montgomery are best admired from a distance.’

      ‘Don’t let your marriage to Stephany sour you. Not all women are as fickle or as faithless as her.’

      ‘Thank God for that. Though I would hardly categorise Miss Montgomery as a woman. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-one.’

      ‘That’s because she isn’t. But so what if she’s young? Stephany was only twenty-one when you married her, wasn’t she?’

      ‘Exactly,’ came his dry reply.

      ‘You don’t have to marry the girl, you know.’

      ‘Oh, yes, I know that. Only too well.’

      ‘That’s not what I meant. Don’t judge the daughter by the father. Grayson Montgomery might be amoral, but Justine’s a very sweet girl.’

      Marcus’ laughter was cold and hard. ‘Too sweet for me, I think. I like my peaches a little less...er... ripe. Still, if I ever run into Miss Montgomery again, I’ll remember your recommendation. Now, I really must go. I have a board meeting first thing tomorrow morning.’

      Justine parked her silver Nissan 200SX Sports in the double garage, and zapped the roll-down door shut behind her. Her father’s car space was empty and she frowned. Where on earth could he be at midnight on a Sunday night?

      A Saturday night would have been different. He played poker with his racing buddies most Saturday nights, to all hours of the morning. It was not unknown for him to stay out all night, going straight to his Sunday golf game without returning home.

      But Sunday evening he usually reserved for his wife. Still frowning, Justine scooped up her carryall from the passenger seat and ran up the back stairs to the first floor of the house—and the bedrooms. Seeing the light on under her mother’s