Mistress to a Millionaire

‘I…I’m sorry.’ Daisy stared at him, her head swimming, but whether it was weakness due to her condition or the result of being pinned by that piercing gaze she wasn’t sure.

The man in the doorway was tall, very tall, with hair like a raven’s wing and the sort of arrogantly handsome looks that were as disturbing as they were attractive. He radiated power and vitality, but not in a comforting or reassuring way—or at least Daisy didn’t find it such. The chiselled cheekbones in the cruel, aesthetic face, the dark straight brows and finely moulded mouth were quite devastating but altogether overwhelming.

Daisy watched him as he crossed the room and she wasn’t aware she had shrunk back against the pillows, but the night-black eyes holding hers missed nothing, and the lazy smile which had been hovering at the corners of the firm mouth straightened.

‘Slade Eastwood.’

He held out a large hand and in the brief few seconds that his warm, strong fingers enclosed Daisy’s small paw she felt the impact right down to her toes.

‘Daisy Summers,’ she returned shakily.

‘Daisy…’ His lips lingered on her name, and the ebony gaze stroked over the delicate young woman in front of him, her beautiful golden-brown eyes set in a face that was hauntingly lovely and surrounded by a soft cloud of silky silver-blonde hair. ‘An unusual name but most apt,’ he drawled slowly.

‘Apt?’ The dizziness had gone but she was so tired she couldn’t put any strength in her voice, much as she wanted to.

‘Your eyes are the gold at the heart of a daisy and your hair its petals.’ The dark, husky voice caused a shiver to pass over her skin, and then, as she continued to stare at him with huge eyes, his tone changed as he turned to the nurse and said, ‘When did she regain consciousness?’

‘Just a short while ago, Mr Eastwood.’

He nodded, turning back to Daisy. ‘Then I’ll let you get some rest,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s still early days.’

‘Oh, please?’ He was already halfway to the door when her voice stopped him, and as he turned to face her again Daisy summoned up all her courage and said tremblingly, ‘I…I can’t stay here any longer, Mr Eastwood; I understand you are paying for me? I…I can’t reimburse you immediately, but of course I will do so when—’

‘Reimburse me? There is no question of that.’

‘Oh, yes, I must, but I can’t afford to stay— I mean I must leave today—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ There wasn’t the slightest touch of a bedside manner as he rapped out the words, and then, as she flinched back against the covers, he said more quietly, ‘It was my car which put you in here so it is only right I take the responsibility for your recovery. Please don’t give the matter another thought. And the name is Slade.’

‘But the accident was my fault; you didn’t have a chance of missing me,’ she stated weakly. And then, as the thought occurred to her, she asked, ‘Did I damage your car?’

He stared at her as though she were mad for a long moment and his voice reflected the expression on his face when he murmured, ‘Did you…? What the hell does the car matter?’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ she whispered miserably.

He wasn’t about to tell her that his severe braking, added to a wild swerve to avoid hitting her head-on, had resulted in the rear of his Aston Martin Volante coming into unfortunate contact with a lamppost, and now he shrugged easily. ‘The car is fine but you are not—end of story. And you will stay in here until the doctors are satisfied you are well enough to leave.’

It was authoritative and cool and acted like a shot of adrenalin straight into Daisy’s wilting frame. She sat up straighter, ignoring the jabs of red-hot pain the mild movement caused, and now her voice was much stronger when she said firmly, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t do that, Mr Eastwood.’

For crying out loud, what was the matter with the woman? Slade Eastwood called on his meagre store of patience and willed the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Yes, you can, Daisy,’ he said with measured stoicism. ‘You gave me the fright of my life yesterday morning—’ his stomach muscles tensed at the memory ‘—followed by a very anxious twenty-four hours. The financial side of things is nothing, nothing, okay? At the risk of sounding crass I can afford for you to live here for ever if necessary, so please, indulge me? You owe me that at least.’

Put like that it completely took the wind out of Daisy’s sails and he sensed it immediately, following up with, ‘I’m sure we’re talking about a few days, a week at the most, and it will mean I sleep easy at night.’

Oh, this was awful, awful; what should she do? Daisy stared at him, her honey-gold eyes enormous in the wan paleness of her face, and then, as he returned her look steadily, his face now betraying nothing but friendly concern, it was all suddenly too much. She felt too ill and too exhausted to argue with him, and all she wanted to do was to sleep.

‘All right.’ She heard the words with a pang of self-disgust at her feebleness. ‘But I insist on paying you back eventually. It just might take a while.’

‘We’ll discuss that when you’re feeling better.’ He glanced at the gold watch on one tanned wrist, and now it struck her that his suit alone must have cost a small fortune. ‘I have an appointment; I must go. Goodbye for now.’

She nodded her farewell, her eyelids already closing, and she was asleep before he had even closed the door behind him.

For the rest of the day Daisy alternately woke for a few minutes and then slept again, but the next morning, after a solid night’s sleep, she awoke properly. The muzziness which had clouded her thinking was gone, her mind was her own again, and she was ravenously hungry even though it still hurt just to breathe.

It appeared Slade Eastwood had called a few times the day before for reports on her progress, but it wasn’t until that evening, and after a delicious dinner of chicken and mushrooms in a white wine sauce with fresh vegetables, that the man himself made an appearance. Daisy had just scraped the last remnants of chocolate mousse from her dish—a process made more difficult by the fact that her right arm was now as stiff as a board and she was using her left hand—and as a sharp knock sounded at the door she knew immediately who it was.

‘Come in.’ She was pleased how firm and controlled her voice sounded; she wasn’t feeling a bit like that inside. Melted jelly, more like, she thought irritably as she took as deep a breath as her ribs would allow and pushed the tray aside as the door opened.

‘Hello again.’