The Tycoon's Mistress by Sara Craven

Author:Sara Craven
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2010-04-06T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

As the gates closed and the lift began its smooth rush to the penthouse, Cressy drew a deep breath.

Whatever—whoever—was waiting for her, it was essential that she appear composed and in control. She couldn’t afford to let the mask slip for a moment and reveal the turmoil of emotion inside her.

She had dressed carefully for this meeting. Her navy blue suit was immaculate, the skirt cut decorously to the knee. The heavy cream silk blouse buttoned to the throat, and she wore neat navy pumps with a medium heel and carried a briefcase. Her hair had been brushed severely back from her face and confined at the nape of her neck with a gilt clip.

Her make-up had been meticulously applied to cover up the telltale signs of another sleepless night.

She looked, she thought, cool and businesslike. She hoped she was going to be treated accordingly.

She thought, not for the first time, her throat tightening uncontrollably, Oh, let him be a stranger. Please—please let me be wrong about this...

She was met on the top floor by a tall blonde man with a transatlantic accent, who greeted her unsmilingly and introduced himself as Paul Nixon, Mr Viannis’s personal assistant.

He led her down the thickly carpeted corridor and knocked at the double doors at the end.

He said, ‘Miss Fielding is here, sir,’ and stood aside to allow Cressy to go in.

The room was full of light. There were huge windows on three sides, permitting panoramic views all over London.

But Cressy was only aware of the tall, dark figure silhouetted against the brightness. For a moment she was scarcely able to breathe, and she halted abruptly, feeling as if a giant fist had clenched in her stomach, all her worst fears finally and inevitably confirmed.

He was very still, but with the tension of a coiled spring. Across the room, his anger reached out and touched her, and she had to fight an impulse to flinch. Or even run...

He said softly, ‘So, you have come to me at last— Cressida, my faithless one.’

There was a note in his voice which sent a shiver between her shoulder blades, but it was vital not to seem afraid.

She lifted her chin. ‘Mr. Viannis?’

‘What charming formality.’ The mockery in his tone was savage. ‘You feel it’s appropriate—under the circumstances? After all, how do you address your ex fiancé—someone you’ve so signally betrayed?’

She said steadily, ‘I came here to negotiate a deal for my father, not indulge in useless recriminations.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You came here to accept my terms. There is nothing to negotiate.’

She’d hoped to find a stranger and in some ways her wish had been granted, because this wasn’t Draco. This man had never worn scruffy denims or danced in the sunlight. Had never kissed her, or smiled at her with lazy desire. Could never, even for a few breathless moments, have held her naked in his arms.

This man looked thinner—older, she thought, her eyes scanning him with sudden bewilderment. His charcoal suit with its faint pinstripe was exquisitely cut, his tie a paler gray silk.

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