Hired: Mistress: Wanted: Mistress and Mother / His Private Mistress / The Millionaire's Secret Mistress

Bound to him by contract, surrendering to him for pleasure…

Hired: Mistress

Three pulse-racing, glamorous romances from three beloved Mills & Boon authors!

HIRED: MISTRESS

Wanted: Mistress and Mother by Carol Marinelli His Private Mistress by Chantelle Shaw The Millionaire’s Secret Mistress by Kathryn Ross

HIS INDEPENDENT BRIDE

Wife Against Her Will by Sara Craven The Wedlocked Wife by Maggie Cox Bertoluzzi’s Heiress Bride by Catherine Spencer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as writer. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and after chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth – writing. The third question asked – what are your hobbies? well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered swimming and tennis, but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian open – I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Don’t miss Carol Marinelli’s exciting new novel, Knight on the Children’s Ward, available in June 2010 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

INAPPROPRIATE.

It was the first word that sprang to mind as dark, clearly irritated eyes swung round to face her, black eyes that stared down at Matilda, scrutinising her face unashamedly, making her acutely aware of her—for once—expertly made-up face. The vivid pink lipstick the beautician had insisted on to add a splash of colour to her newly straightened ash blonde hair and porcelain complexion seemed to suddenly render her mouth immovable, as, rather than slowing down to assist, the man she had asked for directions had instead, after a brief angry glance, picked up speed and carried on walking.

Inappropriate, because generally when you stopped someone to ask for directions, especially in a hospital, you expected to be greeted with a courteous nod or smile, for the person to actually slow down, instead of striding ahead and glaring back at you with an angry question of their own.

‘Where?’

Even though he uttered just a single word, the thick, clipped accent told Matilda that English wasn’t this man’s first language. Matilda’s annoyance at this response was doused a touch. Perhaps he was in the hospital to visit a sick relative, had just flown in to Australia from…In that split second her mind worked rapidly, trying to place him—his appearance was Mediterranean, Spanish or Greek perhaps, or maybe…

‘Where is it you want to go?’ he barked, finally deigning to slow down a fraction, the few extra words allowing Matilda to place his strong accent—he was Italian!

‘I wanted to know how to find the function room,’ she said slowly, repeating the question she had already asked, berating her luck that the only person walking through the maze of the hospital administration corridors spoke little English. That the tall, imposing man she had had to resort to for directions was blatantly annoyed at the intrusion. ‘I’m trying to get there for the opening of the hospital garden. I’m supposed to be there in…’ She glanced down at her watch and let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Actually, I was supposed to be there five minutes ago.’

‘Merda!’ As he glanced at his watch the curse that escaped his lips, though in Italian, wasn’t, Matilda assumed, particularly complimentary, and abruptly stepping back she gave a wide-eyed look, before turning smartly on her heel and heading off to find her own way. He’d made it exceptionally clear that her request for assistance had been intrusive but now he was being downright rude. She certainly wasn’t going to stand around and wait for the translation—she’d find the blessed function room on her own!

‘I’m sorry.’ He caught up with her in two long strides, but Matilda marched on, this angry package of testosterone the very last thing she needed this morning.

‘No, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ Matilda called back over her shoulder, pushing the button—any button—on the lift and hoping to get the hell out of there. ‘You’re clearly busy.’

‘I was cursing myself, not you.’ He gave a tiny grimace, shrugged very wide shoulders in apology, which sweetened the explanation somewhat, and Matilda made a mental correction. His English was, in fact, excellent. It was just his accent that was incredibly strong—deep and heavy, and, Matilda reluctantly noted, incredibly sensual. ‘I too am supposed to be at the garden opening, I completely forgot that they’d moved the time forward. My secretary has decided to take maternity leave.’

‘How inconsiderate of her!’ Matilda murmured under her breath, before stepping inside as the lift slid open.