The Billionaire's Virgin Mistress (1 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
The Billionaire's Virgin Mistress by Sandra Field. Copyright 2008 by Sandra Field.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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THE BILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

Sandra Field


CHAPTER ONE

AS THE Malagash Island ferry eased into the dock, Cade Lorimer turned on the ignition of his beloved Maserati and prepared himself for what would undoubtedly be an unpleasant interview.

Saluting the ferry attendant, he drove up the metal ramp onto the narrow highway. He knew exactly where he was going. He owned most of the island, after all. An island now awash in early September sunlight, its thickets of evergreens hugging the cliffs, the sea sparkling as it dashed itself against the rocks.

He was here at the request of Del, his adoptive father. Here on a fool’s errand, one that could lead to nothing but trouble—because the woman he was to track down was, in theory, Del’s granddaughter.

Del’s granddaughter? That had to be the joke of the century. She was a fake. Of course she was.

According to Del she’d been born in Madrid, and had spent most of her life in Europe. Yet for the last eleven months she’d been living a mere forty miles from Del’s summer mansion on the coast of Maine.

Cade didn’t believe in coincidence. Tess Ritchie was an imposter who’d heard of Del’s considerable fortune and was biding her time to lay claim to it.

So it was up to him to stop her. And stop her he would.

On the meadows above the road, three deer were peacefully grazing; Cade’s eyes flicked over them, barely registering their presence. Del—so he’d said—had known about Tess ever since she was born, had supported her financially for her entire life, but had never been in touch with her directly or breathed a word about her existence to anyone.

Through local gossip, Cade had long ago found out about Del’s biological son, Cory, the black sheep of the family who was, supposedly, Tess Ritchie’s father. Del had never breathed a word about Cory’s existence, either.

The two best kept secrets on the eastern seaboard, Cade thought, his fingers drumming the soft leather on the steering wheel. If by any chance Tess Ritchie wasn’t a fake, then she was related to Del by blood. As he, Cade, was not.

This simple fact rankled; he resented even the possibility of Del having a granddaughter. Stupid of him, no doubt. But wasn’t his reaction one more indication of how he’d always felt cheated of any true connection to Del?

Cade rolled down the window, the breeze tugging at his hair. Another minute or two and he’d be there. The investigator’s report had stated that Tess Ritchie was renting a converted fish shack just past the village.

The investigator was one Cade himself had used; his reputation was impeccable. But this time, he was out to lunch.

As for strategy, Cade figured he’d wing it once he was face-to-face with Tess Ritchie. For sure, he’d have to fight her off. The woman wasn’t born who could resist Del’s money, let alone Cade’s far more substantial wealth. Billionaire had a certain ring, he had to admit.

So there were two rich men in the family. Yeah, he’d have to fight her off.

He rounded a corner, and there, on the shore of the cove, was a fish shack that had been turned into a small winterized cabin. An image of Moorings, Del’s summer place, flashed across Cade’s mind; Del wanted him to bring Tess Ritchie to Moorings on the return trip. The contrast with the fish shack was so laughable that Cade’s anger jumped another notch.

He turned down the dirt track to the cabin. No car parked outside and no sign of life. Tess Ritchie worked full-time, Tuesday to Saturday, at the local library, that much Cade knew; it was why he’d arrived well before nine on a Saturday morning.

He drew up outside the cabin and climbed out of his car. Waves murmured on the shingled beach; a pair of gulls soared overhead, their wings limned in light. Filling his lungs with cool salt air, Cade briefly forgot his errand in a moment of sheer pleasure. His own love of the sea was a rare bond between him and Del.

With an impatient sigh, he strode over to the door—painted an ebullient shade of yellow—knocked hard and knew instinctively that the silence on the other side of the door was the silence of emptiness. Fool’s errand, indeed. She wasn’t even home.

On ponderous gray wings a heron flew past; and to Cade’s ears came the rattle of footsteps on the pebbles. Swiftly he circled the cabin. A woman wearing brief shorts and a tank top was jogging toward him along the crest of the beach. She was agile, tanned and lithe, her hair jammed under a vivid orange baseball cap.

Then she caught sight of him. She stopped dead in her tracks, her breast heaving from exertion, and for the space of ten full seconds they stared at each other across the expanse of pebbled beach.

At a much slower pace, which was imbued with reluctance—or was it fear? Cade wondered—she started toward him.

On his way to the cabin, he’d pictured a bleached blonde with a slash of red lipstick and a lush, in-your-face body. He’d been wrong. About as wrong as he could be. His mouth dry, his eyes intent, he watched her come to a halt twenty feet away from him, her back to the sun.

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