The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress

The vague feeling of dissatisfaction that had sat on his shoulders ever since he had bumped into Megan three days previously was dispelled slightly by a mental tallying of all the things he had in common with his fiancée—first and foremost their overriding work ethic.

It was all well and good for Megan to sit there with icy hostility stamped all over her face, as though he had single-handedly been responsible for coining the word bastard. What she didn’t realise was that long-term relationships were built on more than just fun and romance. In fact, when it came to marriage, it was far more likely to succeed as a business proposition.

It frustrated him that he hadn’t been able to convey that message to her three days ago. He might not now be scowling as he slung on his coat and headed for the elevator had he done so.

No one enjoyed being vilified for a crime they hadn’t committed, and Alessandro was no exception.

In fact, he decided, as the elevator doors pinged open and he spotted Victoria and her son sitting on the low olive-green and chrome sofa in the reception area, it was almost a good thing that he would be seeing Megan again. If he had a chance to have a word with her—he certainly wouldn’t be engineering any such thing, but if the situation arose—then he would tell her, politely but firmly, that they had both been kids when they had broken up. That it had been for the best. That it was ridiculous for her to be carrying a grudge after seven years.

He was barely aware of Dominic fidgeting next to him in the back seat of his Bentley, which his chauffeur was driving, and he only vaguely tuned in and out of Victoria’s conversation—which he would have to get back to later, because it involved an offshore deal he was working on at the moment.

In fact, he was finding that he was actively anticipating seeing Megan’s face when she realised that he had shown up to her football game. Trust Megan to have a hobby most normal women would steer clear of. He tried to picture Victoria in a football kit, running around on a field somewhere, but his imagination couldn’t stretch to it. She was impeccably well bred, impeccably dressed and utterly uninterested in sport—both playing and watching.

He reached behind Dominic and absent-mindedly caressed her neck, just as the car pulled up to the school grounds.

Caught up in a tackle, Megan briefly registered Dominic’s arrival before refocusing on the game.

She had known he would be coming because his mother had got her secretary to call her. She assumed the unfortunate nanny had been manoeuvred into this particular duty, and then forgot all about it for the remainder of the game—which was a very muddy, very physical, very invigorating one.

An hour later she walked across to three people barely visible because it was now so dark. She would have a two-minute chat with Dominic and maybe try and interest him in some football lessons—a plan which she had already mentioned to Robbie, the guy who coached at the school. In fact, coached at various schools.

‘You tell me his mother’s a hard-nosed lawyer?’ Robbie had slung his arm around her shoulder. ‘Just my type. Sure I’ll take the kid on.’

‘A hard-nosed engaged lawyer.’ Megan had laughed. ‘Who won’t be at the match anyway. Just try and get Dominic interested in some lessons. I think it would do him good.’

An absentee father who lived in New York, as she had discovered from Jessica at school, and a soon-to-be stepfather who didn’t see parenting someone else’s child as part of his job description. It was a lose-lose situation for the poor kid, and a little outdoor fun wouldn’t hurt him.

She was trying to untangle her hair from the elastic band which had started off the evening in place but seemed to have travelled in the wrong direction during the game, when she looked at bit more carefully at the three figures taking shape in front of her.

There was Dominic in the middle, huddled in a dark coat, and on either side of him…

Megan felt the colour surge into her face. His mother—surprisingly—and Alessandro.

She had thought to have seen the last of him after their horrible little catch-up chat, which had been more painful for her than Chinese water torture. Seeing him again out of the blue had stirred up a hornets’ nest in her head. Now here he was, larger than life and playing happy families.

‘You scored a goal, Miss Reynolds! And you’re covered in mud!’ Dominic sounded delighted at this revelation.

‘If you’re not careful, I shall put some on you!’ She was caked in mud from head to foot, while Alessandro stood there watching her in his city suit and his beautiful coat and his very, very clean handmade Italian leather shoes. And Dominic’s mother looked even more impeccable. How on earth could anyone watch a football match in high-heeled shoes?