Sharon Kendrick - Mistress - Taming the Playboy

Mistress

Taming the Playboy

Constantine’s Defiant Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

Androletti’s Mistress

Melanie Milburne

Valenti’s One-Month Mistress

Sabrina Philips

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Constantine’s Defiant Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

SHARON KENDRICKstarted story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances, with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl! Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester—where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tiptoe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating—and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!

IT WAS hearing his name on the radio which made her senses scream. Laura never had time for newspapers—even if her dyslexia hadn’t made reading so difficult—she relied on the morning news programme to keep her up to date. Usually she only listened with half an ear, and usually she wasn’t remotely interested in anything to do with international finance.

But Karantinos was an unusual name. And it was Greek. And didn’t anything to do with that beautiful and ancient land put her senses on painful alert for very obvious reasons?

She had been busy making bread—sprinkling a handful of seeds into the dough before she popped the last batch into the oven. But with shaking hands she stopped dead-still and listened—like a small animal who had found itself caught alone and frightened in the middle of a hostile terrain.

‘Greek billionaire Constantine Karantinos has announced record profits for his family shipping line,’ intoned the dry voice of the news-reader. ‘Playboy Karantinos is currently in London to host a party at the Granchester Hotel, where it is rumoured he will announce his engagement to Swedish supermodel Ingrid Johansson.’

Laura swayed, gripping the work surface to support herself, her ears scarcely able to bear what she had just heard, her heart pounding with a surprisingly forceful pain. Because she had preserved Constantine in her heart, remembering him just as he’d been when she’d known him—as if time had stood still. A bittersweet memory of a man who still made her ache when she thought of him. But time never stood still—she knew that more than anyone.

And what had she expected? That a man like Constantine would stay single for ever? As if that lazy charm and piercing intellect—that powerhouse body and face of a fallen angel—would remain unattached. She was just surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner.

She could hear the sounds of movement from above as she took off her apron. But her heart was racing as she mechanically went through her morning routine of tidying up the kitchen before going upstairs to wake her son. She often told herself how lucky she was to live ‘over the shop’, and although helping run a small baker’s store hadn’t been her life’s ambition, at least it gave her a modest income which she supplemented with occasional waitressing work. But most of all it provided a roof over their heads—which was security for Alex—and that was worth more than anything in Laura’s eyes.

Her sister Sarah was already up, yawning as she emerged from one of the three poky bedrooms, running her fingers through the thick dark curtain of her hair, which so contrasted with her sister’s finer, fairer mane.

‘Mornin’, Laura,’ Sarah mumbled, and then blinked as she saw her older sister’s face ‘What the hell’s happened? Don’t tell me the oven’s gone on the blink again?’

Mutely, Laura shook her head, then jerked it in the direction of her son’s bedroom. ‘Is he up yet?’ she mouthed.

Sarah shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

Laura glanced at the clock on the wall, which dominated her busy life, and saw that she had ten minutes before she had to get Alex up for school. Pulling Sarah into the small sitting room which overlooked the high street, she shut the door behind them and turned to her sister, her whole body trembling.

‘Constantine Karantinos is in London,’ she began, the whispered words falling out of her mouth like jagged little fragments of glass.

Her sister scowled. ‘And?’

Laura willed her hands to stop shaking. ‘He’s throwing a party.’ She swallowed. ‘And they say he’s getting engaged. To a Swedish supermodel.’

Sarah shrugged. ‘What do you want me to say? That it’s a surprise?’

‘No … But I …’

‘But what, Laura?’ demanded Sarah impatiently. ‘You can’t seem to accept that the no-good bastard you slept with hasn’t an ounce of conscience. That he never gave you another thought.’

‘He—’

‘He what? Refused to see you? Why, you couldn’t even get a single meeting with the great man, could you, Laura? No matter how many times you tried. He’s never even taken your phone calls! You were good enough to share his bed—but not good enough to be recognised as the mother of his child!’

Laura shot an agonised look at the closed door, straining her ears as she wondered if Alex had done the unheard-of and managed to get himself out of bed without his mother or his auntie gently shaking him awake. But then, seven-year-old boys were notoriously bad at getting up in the morning, weren’t they? And they became increasingly curious as they got older … kept asking questions she wasn’t sure how to answer …

‘Shh. I don’t want Alex to hear!’

‘Why not? Why shouldn’t he know that his father happens to be one of the richest men on the planet—while his mother is working her fingers to the bone in a bread shop, trying to support him?’

‘I don’t want to …’ But her words tailed off. Didn’t want to what exactly? Laura wondered. Didn’t want to hurt her beloved son because it was the duty of every mother to protect her child? Yet she had been finding it increasingly difficult to do that. Just last month Alex had come home with a nasty-looking bruise on his cheek, and when she had asked him what had happened he had mumbled and become very defensive. It had only been later that she’d discovered he’d been involved in some kind of minor skirmish in the playground. And later still that she had discovered the cause, when she’d gone tearing into the school, white-faced and trembling, to seek a meeting with the headmistress.

It transpired that Alex was being bullied because he looked ‘different’. Because his olive skin, black eyes and towering height made him look older and tougher than the other boys in his class. And because the little girls in the class—even at the tender ages of six and seven—had been following the dark-eyed Alex around like eager little puppies. Like father, like son, she had thought with a pang.