Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure by India Grey

fingers sought the base of the zip.
    It began low down, in the small of her back. His fingers skimmed across the luxuriously soft fabric to where it met the satin warmth of her skin and he almost snatched his hand away.
    ‘Can you manage?’
    That was what her voice reminded him of, he thought, brushing his thumb downwards, smoothing her dress. Velvet. Dark, luxurious, sexy velvet.
    ‘Of course,’ he snapped, tugging the zip upwards. ‘Done.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She turned to face him again. ‘Now you.’
    Downstairs, the house was finally ready, and she hoped it was almost up to Lucinda’s standard. But the time had sped by, and she had left barely half an hour to wreak the same magic on herself as she had on the vast, chilly rooms. Rushing upstairs, she had showered in record time and, with shaking hands, had brushed the lightest smudge of charcoal-grey glittering shadow over her eyelids, adding a slick of shimmering gloss to lips that already felt swollen and red. Finally she had slipped into the dress she was to have worn at her big recital in Paris, at the end of her honeymoon. A narrow, figure hugging column of dark green crushed velvet, it had come to no harm from being squashed into her suitcase for two days.
    For five long minutes she’d struggled with the zip, before giving in and coming to find him. But from the moment she’d walked in here and seen him, his shirt open to the waist, the long cuffs hanging down over his beautiful hands, she had felt sick with desire. And now this was almost more than she could bear.
    It was like some sophisticated form of torture. Picking up one of the antique shirt studs, Rachel tried to slot it into the lowest buttonhole, just above the place where his stomach swept down in a muscular arc beneath his ribs. Only centimetres from his bare skin, her hand trembled violently with the need to touch it. She gripped the stud between her fingers, focusing intently on the gold-hinged stem and waiting for the dizzying wave of longing to pass before she could fit it through the hole.
    It was so stupid, so very, very stupid, to feel like this when he belonged to someone else. There was no point going back over what had happened last night—that had been before she’d known about Arabella, and had come with no promises, only pure, heat-of-the moment passion…
    She shuddered, biting back a moan as the stud slipped through her fingers.
    ‘Sorry—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
    She dropped to her knees and swept a hand over the rough sisal floor covering, groping for the stud. Suddenly the symbolism of her position struck her—she was literally on the floor at his feet. She had to get a grip of herself. Standing up, she took a deep breath.
    ‘Sorry. Try again.’
    He had promised her nothing. She slid the stud into place and reached for another. He had given her no reason to think he had any feelings for her whatsoever. Another stud. He hadn’t even seemed to notice her hair. What had she expected? That he’d take one look at her and decide Arabella wasn’t the one for him after all? God, how ridiculous. Angrily, she picked up another stud.
    And made the mistake of glancing up at him.
    He was staring straight past her, over her head, his clear green eyes empty and bleak, his jaw tense, as if he was enduring some terrible private torment. She looked quickly away, sliding the stud into the buttonhole in the middle of his chest. Over his heart.
    Arabella. He was wishing she was Arabella.
    Misery fought with compassion. In that brief moment when she’d looked at him she had seen on his face an expression that exactly mirrored her own feelings. The difference was that she had the ability to ease his suffering a little. Arabella had told her not to say anything, but would it be so wrong to comfort him with the news that she was coming back?
    He lifted his chin so she could put the last stud into the collar of his shirt, revealing the strong column of his throat. For a second