The Millionaire's Rebellious Mistress - By Catherine George Page 0,36

any more?’

‘Yes, of course I do. But I have a problem.’

‘What?’

‘The way you look tonight, any normal guy would want to be more than just your friend, Sarah. But don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll stick to the rules.’

‘What rules?’

‘Yours: friendship with the enemy, but no sleeping with him.’

She eyed him quizzically. ‘Is that what you want?’

He smiled wryly. ‘Of course I do. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.’

‘You’re honest!’

‘Always the best policy, Sarah. But don’t let it worry you. Just good friends will do for now.’ He touched a caressing finger to her bottom lip. ‘So repair the damage, and let’s take off to see what Stephen has to offer.’

Outside in the courtyard Sarah looked round for the Cherokee, her eyes wide as Alex led her to the classic beauty parked near the front gate.

‘Wow,’ she exclaimed. ‘A Jensen Interceptor, no less. I do so hope my neighbours are watching. I got some teasing about the yellow Ferrari the other night, then Oliver collected me in his Daimler, and now you turn up with this baby.’

‘My pride and joy, and used solely for special occasions,’ said Alex, handing her in.

‘I’m honoured. Though I would have been equally happy with the Jeep.’

‘I know.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘That’s part of what makes the occasion special.’

It was Sarah’s third meal in as many days at the Pheasant Inn, but eating alone with Alex raised the experience to a new level. His kiss earlier had altered things between them, to the point where just his mention of sleeping with the enemy was enough to revive sexual tension, which simmered below the surface while they studied menus and sipped the champagne he’d insisted on ordering.

‘But the celebration was yesterday,’ said Sarah, her colour rising as he looked into her eyes.

‘This is to celebrate something far more important than mere business,’ he said, toasting her. ‘To friendship—among other things.’

‘What other things?’ she asked, raising her glass in response.

‘Future pleasures.’ He gave her the crooked smile that had once irritated her and now had a totally different effect. ‘So, what would you like to eat?’

‘I know it’s a strange choice with champagne—I didn’t dare ask for it at lunch yesterday or Oliver would have had a stroke—but I fancy fish and chips.’

‘You can have whatever you want,’ Alex said, as the waitress arrived to take their order. ‘I’ll have the same.’

The simple, perfectly cooked food tasted wonderful, though Sarah had an idea that eating it in Alex’s company had a lot to do with it. The small arrangement of flowers on the table had a single fat candle at its centre, with a flame which gave his eyes a more pronounced gleam than usual as they talked shop with the ease of old friends rather than recent enemies. Sarah’s barn conversions were the main topic for a while, then she listened, fascinated, as Alex told her about the Merrick Group’s acquisition of a manor house its owner no longer had the money to maintain.

‘How sad,’ said Sarah with compassion. ‘To someone brought up to that kind of world it must be a bitter blow to leave it.’

‘This particular owner grew up in a cottage much like the ones you’ve just developed. Ronnie Higgins, aka Rick Harmon, lead singer and guitarist of the Rampage, bought the house at the height of the group’s success, but soon got too immersed in the good life to write new songs. The result was inevitable. Their records plummeted down the charts and the rainy day Rick never saved for arrived all too soon. He was forced to sell the fast cars, put the house up for sale and auction the contents.’

‘Poor man. What will you do with it?’

‘Convert it—with great sympathy—into luxury apartments. We’ve sold most of them in advance already.’ Alex smiled. ‘Would you like to live in something like that, Sarah?’

‘No way.’ She looked up with a smile as Stephen Hicks arrived to ask how they had enjoyed the meal.

‘First class, as usual, Chef,’ Alex assured him. ‘The lady loves your fish and chips.’

Stephen rolled his eyes. ‘Marvellous! I honed my craft in Paris and London, and all people want is my fish and chips.’

‘I’ll try whatever you recommend next time,’ Sarah promised.

‘You can tell us what to order when I book,’ Alex assured his friend. ‘What’s for pudding?’

Sarah demurred, but gave in when Alex coaxed her to share a dish of sorbet made from blood oranges and pomegranates. She was actually dipping her spoon