Mistresses: Passionate Revenge. Trish Morey

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      ‘Us, Petra?’ Andreas continued. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have mentioned. I’m bringing a friend.’

      Something about the way he said those last words made Cleo turn her head, some loaded quality that spoke of a message she didn’t quite understand. She didn’t mean to look right at him, she intended to swing her head around as if merely choosing to look out of the nearside windows, but her eyes jagged on his and held solid. ‘That’s right,’ he said, holding her gaze and her heartbeat, it seemed, in his. ‘A friend. Please ensure Maria has my suite prepared.’

      He clicked the phone closed and slipped it away, all the while still holding her gaze.

      ‘Is it much further?’ she asked with false brightness, wondering what it was she was missing and why she was so suddenly breathless and why he needed to look at her that way, as if she were about to be served up for his next meal.

      ‘No. Not much.’

      As if on cue the limousine pulled off Park Lane into a wide driveway and rolled to a gentle stop. She looked up at the hotel towering over the car. ‘But this…This is Grosvenor House.’

      ‘So it is.’

      The door opened and cold air swept into the warm interior as the concierge pulled open the door. ‘But why are we here? I thought…You said…’

      ‘We’re here,’ he simply said, sliding one long leg out and extending his hand to her. ‘If you care to join me.’

      ‘But I can’t go in there. Not like this. I look like I’ve just stepped off the farm.’

      ‘They’ll think you’re an eccentric Australian.’

      ‘They must have a staff entrance!’ But still, she was already moving towards him, inexorably drawn by his assuredness.

      ‘Come,’ he said, taking her hand to help her out. ‘These people are paid not to take any notice.’

      It was no consolation. She felt like someone who should be staying at some backpackers’ hotel, not the poshest hotel in Mayfair. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass frontage and grimaced. She looked like a total hick. Why couldn’t he have warned her? But Andreas didn’t seem to care. The concierge staff swarmed like foot soldiers around him, taking orders, trying to please, while others ferried her backpack onto a trolley as lovingly as if it were the finest Louis Vuitton luggage.

      She followed in his wake uncertain, sure someone was about to call Security and send her on her way, but worry soon gave way to wonder.

      She stepped from the revolving door into a lobby of white marble and columns the colour of clotted cream and forgot to think. It was amazing. Luxurious. A fantasyland. It took every shred of self-control she possessed not to spin around in a circle to take it all in. Instead she slipped her Driza-Bone from her shoulders and tried to look as if she belonged. Fat chance.

      Could it be possible that she’d soon be working here? At Grosvenor House? Andreas left her momentarily while he dealt with Reception, she guessed to inform the housekeeper she was here, and she drank in the luxury and the ambience. Now she would have a reason to call her mother and not feel as if she had nothing but bad news. After the disaster that Kurt had been and her mother worrying about her working long hours in a seedy hotel, she would be thrilled she’d scored a position in one of London’s landmark hotels. She wouldn’t tell her it was only for a month. If she played her cards right, she’d have a reference from one of London’s top hotels and she would be set for another job.

      And maybe some time soon she’d be able to save enough money to pay back the money her nanna had given her and she’d lost when she’d entrusted it to Kurt. At least now she had a chance.

      Andreas returned and took her arm and steered her past a suite of red velvet chairs on a round signature rug that reeked money.

      ‘Are you taking me to meet the housekeeper? I’m sure I can find her. I’ve kept you long enough.’

      He didn’t look at her, simply kept on walking her into a lift. ‘I thought you might like to see your room first, see if it’s suitable.’ He pushed a button and she frowned. ‘Did I tell you you’d have to share?’

      His question distracted her. ‘You think I mind? Just look at this place.’ She paused as the elevator smoothly hummed into motion, suddenly making sense of what had niggled at her before. ‘Hang on. We’re going up. Surely they wouldn’t give staff accommodation on a guest floor?’

      He held off answering as the lift doors slid open, welcoming them into an elegant elevator lobby decorated in olive and magenta tones, before he directed her to a nearby door and keyed it open. ‘It seems you’re in luck.’

      And the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. ‘Tell me this is not my room.’

      ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not. Like I told you, you’d have to share.’

      She swallowed. ‘Then tell me whose room it is. Who would even have a room like this in the Grosvenor to start with—Prince Harry?’ And even as she asked the question the chilling answer came to her, so unbelievable that she didn’t want to give it credence, so insane that she thought she herself must be. ‘It’s your room, isn’t it? There is no cleaning job. And you expect me to share with you?’

      His dark eyes simmered with aggravation. ‘Come inside and I’ll explain.’

      ‘I’m not going in there! I’m not going anywhere except down in that lift unless you tell me right now what’s going on. And then I’m probably heading down in that lift anyway.’

      ‘Cleo, I will not discuss this in public.’

      She looked around. ‘There’s nobody else here!’

      A bell pinged behind her, followed seconds later by lift doors sliding open. A group emerged, the women chatting and laughing, their arms laden with shopping bags, the men looking as if they could do with a stiff drink.

      She looked longingly at the open lift door behind them. Took a step towards it and then realised. She snapped her head around. ‘Where is my pack?’

      ‘No doubt still on its way up. Now come in and listen to what I have to say and if you still want to go, you can go. But hear me out first. I do have a job for you.’

      ‘Just not cleaning, right?’ Cleo bit her bottom lip. What kind of jobs did Greek billionaires give girls who’d dropped out of high school and made a mess of everything they’d ever attempted? Definitely nothing you needed qualifications for…

      But that made less sense than anything else. Her looks were plain, her figure had always erred on the side of full, and she’d never had men lining up for her favours. Cleaning was about all she was suitable for.

      ‘Cleo.’

      He made her name sound like a warning, the tone threatening, but maybe he was right. Maybe she should hear him out while she waited for her pack. Besides, if she was going to let fly with a few choice words of her own, maybe privacy was the preferred option.

       And then she’d leave.

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