Robyn Grady - Naughty Nights in the Millionaire's Mansion

Would she still be here? She had to believe tomorrow’s appointment with her bank manager would save the day. She couldn’t bear to think of the alternative.

Two hours later, she flipped the sign on the door as the phone rang. If that was the feeders and drinkers supplier after a payment, the cheque was definitely in the mail. If it was the landlord reminding her to be out in two weeks…

She held her nervy stomach. Maybe she wouldn’t answer.

When it rang again, she buckled and picked up. No hello from the other end, just a straight out, ‘I’ve found a name for my fish.’

That deep voice was even more bone-melting over the phone—low and unconsciously inviting against her ear.

‘Mr Stuart. Hello.’

‘Kamikaze.’

She stammered. ‘B-Beg your pardon?’

‘He won’t quit jumping out of the tank. He’s on a suicide mission.’

She sank down onto a chair and rubbed her brow. Oh, dear. ‘That sometimes happens.’

‘I filled the tank, added the right amount of drops, set up the filter, gave him a feed. When I turned my back, he jumped out. I put him back in. He jumped out again, and again.’ His voice dropped to a growl. ‘Clearly he’s not happy.’

‘Could be a couple of things, like not enough water.’

‘I’ve already put more in.’

‘Maybe there’s too much.’

His voice cracked. ‘A fish can have too much water?’

‘Only in so far as making it easier to leap out.’ She gnawed her bottom lip. ‘And then there’s the possibility…’

‘What possibility?’

‘Some fish are just, well, jumpers .’

She heard his groan, then a shuffle as if he’d moved and dropped into a seat himself.

A vision flashed to mind: gorgeous Mitchell Stuart dead on his feet after staying up all night, a scoop in one hand, a fist made out of the other, ruing the day he’d ever set foot in Great and Small.

Vanessa gripped the receiver tight. She’d said she’d help if need be. Statistics said people bought pets from shops relatively close to their homes. Doctors made house calls. No reason she couldn’t.

‘Mr Stuart, I’ve just shut up shop. Would you like me to drop over and see what I can do?’

‘You do that kind of thing?’

She lied. ‘All the time.’

A relieved expulsion of air travelled down the line. ‘I’ll give you my address.’

‘You think this is funny?’ Mitch manoeuvred Kamikaze off his redwood dining table into the net and, suppressing a shudder, plopped him back into the tank water. ‘Well, fun and games are over , buddy boy.’

Help was on the way. Help in the form of a petite, twenty-something-year-old whom he had no intention of getting to know beyond, Thanks for saving my fish . He wouldn’t acknowledge Vanessa Craig’s long, glossy hair, iridescent green eyes or the way his blood warmed like syrup on a stove whenever she smiled that I’m totally harmless smile. He was on sabbatical from women.

All women.

When his father had passed away fifteen years ago, Mitch had become the man of the house. Although he’d moved out of the stately Stuart mansion seven years ago, he was still the one the females of the family scampered to for help…and it seemed they always needed help. Help with their finances, help with repairs, booking flights, computer glitches—you name it, he got the call.

Like a stealthy airborne virus, recently the helpless female factor had followed him into more intimate relationships. Up-and-coming lingerie model Priscilla Lawson had seemed independent and resourceful when they’d met at that charity dinner. After three weeks together, their liaison had warmed up nicely, until Priscilla had tickled his chin one night and mentioned her family reunion… Would he mind booking her flight to Melbourne and, while she was gone, clean her pool and take her cat to its monthly check-up? It had liver problems.

His upper lip twitched.

He did not do cats.

But damn, he sure had liked that Rottweiler pup.

He was a busy man. His work was his life. However, while he had close associates at the firm as well as friends he knocked about with on weekends when he could spare the time, he’d wanted someone to come home to. Someone male who could watch football without a moan, not complain if he put his feet on the coffee table, who didn’t flutter eyelashes or resort to tears to get their own way. Someone who didn’t demand much time or emotion.

He gazed at his goggle-eyed companion.

A goldfish qualified.

The doorbell rang, echoing through the contemporary two-storey that enjoyed a privileged view of Sydney’s magnificent harbour. Mitch rolled the tension from his shoulders, then stabbed a finger at Kami. ‘Don’t move a fin till I get back.’

He opened the door and there she stood, looking unaffected and fresh, one long leg pegged out in those bun-hugging jeans, conspicuously busty in her white T-shirt with the pink swirly logo that said Great and Small . If forced to vote, he would go with Great rather than Small . In fact, she looked pretty darn hot—

Mitch slammed on the mental brakes.

Sweet blazes, what was he doing? Visualising this woman naked wasn’t going to help. In fact, it was highly inappropriate for more reasons than one.

Think ‘fish’, Mitch. Think ‘through with females’ .

Clearing his throat, he gestured her in. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly. He’s over here.’

In the dining room, Vanessa Craig set her hands on her knees and inspected the patient while Mitch stood back, eager for a diagnosis. When the examination went on and her left knee bent more, which meant her right hip hitched up, he scowled and scrubbed his jaw. If she’d done that on purpose, he didn’t need the aggravation.

Finally she straightened, one hand on her lower back as she arched to stretch out her spine. Although Great jumped out at him, Mitch kept his eyes fixed firmly on hers.

Her question was sombre. ‘When was the last time he jumped?’

‘Just before you arrived.’

‘Before that?’

‘Ten minutes ago.’

Pensive, she stroked her chin. ‘Could be he’s still settling in.’

‘Or tomorrow morning I could wake up and—’

Ack . He didn’t want to think about it.

She crossed her arms. The letters G and T met at her cleavage. Not that he was looking. Same way he wasn’t looking when she nibbled her lip and searched for an answer. Her mouth was naturally pink and very full. The highly kissable kind with delicate dimples on either side, as he’d already noted with some consternation earlier today.

‘What if we try a bigger tank?’ she suggested.

Mitch blinked back to the immediate problem. Increased volume equalled decreased risk, which added up to no dead fish in the morning. ‘I like that plan.’

She moved towards the door. ‘Good. I brought one with me. It’s outside on your portico.’

Giving in to a smile, he followed. Clearly Vanessa Craig was intelligent, helpful, prompt as well as prepared. She was also a professional with her own business. Did her profit and loss sheets balance? Of course he was well aware trouble was not a gender specific trait. However, for too long now, it sure-as-Jack seemed that way.

He assisted Vanessa in with the larger tank and a few minutes later it was filled with the neutralising drops doing their work.

Hooking up the filter, she nodded almost shyly at the portrait on the wall. ‘Is that your family?’

His chest constricted with a familiar sense of fondness tinged with regret. The photo featured his tall, lean father sitting on a red chaise longue surrounded by his wife, their four girls and only son.