Convenient Brides (20 page)

‘I want to go home.’

‘Well, I’m going to have a coffee, so come and talk to me while I get it ready.’ He left her standing there, so, rather than stare at her own outraged reflection in the huge mirror in the foyer, she followed him into the spacious kitchen down the hall.

‘If you weren’t researching my aunt what would you be working on right now?’ he asked conversationally, and she wished she’d stayed put. She didn’t want to talk to him about herself. She didn’t want to talk to him, period.

‘Nothing,’ she said despondently, perching on a stool against the granite bench. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘Money troubles?’ he asked, reaching for the kettle.

‘Not if I get an advance on this book,’ she said, giving him a hard look, wondering if he’d been investigating her financial records.

He spooned ground coffee into the jug and filled it with boiling water, then leaned back to study her.

‘I hope you understand that this is nothing personal. I don’t wish you to face financial ruin, but then neither do I wish to see my aunt exploited to pay for your next holiday.’

‘Nothing personal?’ she fired at him. ‘You damn near assaulted me! What could be more personal than that?’

‘As is typical of people with your choice of career, your imagination is once again working overtime.’

‘And I suppose it was my imagination that ripped my stockings to shreds and dislocated my wrist?’

He closed the distance between them and picked up her
arm, turning it over in his hands as gently as if it were priceless porcelain.

‘No bruises,’ he said, letting it go again.

She pouted and cradled her arm against her stomach.

‘It still hurt like hell.’

As he depressed the filter his gaze settled on the petulant bow of her mouth.

‘You are such a drama queen. You’re wasted as a writer—I can think of at least three daytime soaps you’d slot into brilliantly.’

She spun away from his mocking smile and moved to inspect the view from the kitchen window.

‘How do you have your coffee?’ he asked.

‘Black with—’ Then she remembered she wasn’t having coffee. ‘Nothing. I’m having nothing.’

He poured two mugs of coffee and handed her one.

‘The sugar’s on that shelf behind you; teaspoons are in the drawer in front of you.’

Emily breathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and wished she hadn’t been so adamant. She’d been up since four a.m. and the breakfast show had offered her everything but breakfast.

Damien leaned his hip against the granite bench and sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving her face.

‘I have decaf, if you’d prefer,’ he offered laconically.

‘What I’d prefer is you being straight with me. What’s the point of all this?’ She waved her arm to encompass the scene before them. ‘You didn’t bring me here to have coffee.’

‘The coffee’s a bonus.’

She rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Let’s cut through the play-acting and get to the point. What do you want from me?’

He pushed himself away from the bench and closed the distance between them. He put his coffee cup down beside her own untouched one and his eyes locked with hers. She
drew in a sharp little breath that pricked at her lungs all the way down.

‘I told you what I wanted the other day,’ he said, his voice gravelly and deep.

Her eyes flickered to his mouth and back to his chocolate gaze.

‘I…I can’t do that.’ She swallowed. ‘I just can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

She licked her bone-dry lips, fighting for time. ‘Please, I need to write this book and I need it to sell. You’re in finance—surely you must know how it is? I can’t survive without it. I have commitments, a mortgage—’

‘Withdraw the book proposal and I’ll see to your commitments.’

‘What?’
She gawped at him.

‘You heard. Withdraw it and I’ll settle all your debts.’

‘You can’t be serious?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘Surely there must be some sort of catch?’

‘There is,’ he stated simply.

‘And that is?’

He paused. She held her breath, somehow knowing instinctively that she wasn’t going to like this. She was right.

‘I want you to marry me.’

Emily’s mouth dropped open and her eyes threatened to pop right out of her head. ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’ she asked once her voice returned.

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘No joke—I’m serious.’

She stared at him in horror. ‘You’d go
that far
to stop me?’

He shrugged again. ‘Take it or leave it. I have the means to set you up so you don’t have to pen another unscrupulous word.’

‘I can’t believe you’d go to such lengths—’

‘It would be a marriage in name only,’ he said.

‘Now who’s auditioning for a daytime soap?’ she quipped drily.

‘I mean it. I find myself in the unenviable position of needing a wife on paper. Taxes and so on, if you understand.’

‘I hear there are desperate women in Asia looking for an Australian passport,’ she put in.

‘I’ve decided that you’ll do.’

‘I’m flattered—I think.’ She frowned at him darkly. ‘Tell me, what was it that won you? My looks, or my way with words? Or perhaps it was that glimpse you got of my inner thigh when you slaughtered my stockings in the taxi?’

He laughed and reached for his coffee. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He chuckled. ‘You’d be wasted on a daytime soap. You deserve your own show.’

‘I’m glad you’re finding this amusing because I sure as hell am not. What am I supposed to say to my agent, not to mention my publisher?’

He sipped at his coffee in a leisurely manner before answering her. ‘I think you should tell them you’re getting married and wish to stall the writing of your book for a few months.’

‘Months?’

‘Weeks, then,’ he acceded. ‘Who knows? By then, if you behave yourself, I might even arrange for you to interview Rose personally.’

Emily stared at him, her heart leaping in her chest. ‘You’d allow that?’

He shrugged again. ‘Let’s wait and see. I’ll make a decision after we’re married.’

‘So, either way you win?’

‘That depends on the way you look at it,’ he said smoothly. ‘You stand to gain the biggest scoop of your career in exchange for being my wife.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ she said, reaching for her nearly cold coffee. ‘It depends on the way you look at it.’

D
AMIEN
watched the play of emotions on Emily’s face as she stoically finished her coffee.

‘There are a few issues we need to discuss if you do decide to take me up on my offer,’ he said as she put her cup down.

‘What sort of issues?’ She looked up at him suspiciously.

‘A marriage of convenience is exactly that. One of con-venience, hopefully for both parties.’

‘Oh, really?’ Her look was scathing. ‘Do I get three guesses as to who’s the winner in these particular convenience stakes?’

‘I know you like to think you’re paying the ultimate price, but in reality if you refuse you might be missing out on the chance of a lifetime.’

She shot him another scornful look over her shoulder as she strode towards the front door. ‘You must think I’m a complete fool if you think for one minute I’d accept your offer of marriage.’ She wrenched at the doorknob but before she could turn it Damien’s large hand closed over hers and turned her effortlessly to face him.

‘Think about it, Emily,’ he said in that silky tone that sent shivers of reaction up her spine every time. ‘No more money worries. No more deadlines. You could sit back and relax, just do what you want to do, write exactly what you want to write, without the pressure of others’ expectations.’

‘And what exactly is it you get?’ she asked, trying to create some distance between the heat of their bodies.

He took his time answering. His eyes scanned her face for long seconds before dipping to the shadow between her
still heaving breasts, returning to her outraged blue gaze with an unreadable light in his own.

‘I get the privilege of your charming company. What more could a man want?’

Emily’s resentment knew no bounds at his taunting tone. She scowled at him furiously and tried to remove her hand from his but he held her firm.

‘I won’t sleep with you,’ she said flatly.

‘So.’ His mouth tilted in a sardonic grin. ‘You are tempted to accept my offer?’

‘Of course not!’ She gave her hand a vicious tug and freed herself. He laughed and opened the door behind her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home. We can talk about this some more in a few days.’

Emily followed him out to where he had two luxurious sports cars garaged. She set her mouth in a tight line and muttered as she got into the Lamborghini he’d opened, ‘I think it’s disgusting for people to have more than one car. You can only drive one at a time anyway, so what’s the point other than to show off an obscene amount of wealth?’

Damien slid into his own seat and started the car with a throaty roar before glinting across at her. ‘Tell me, Emily. How many pairs of shoes do you have?’

‘Shoes?’ She looked at him blankly.

‘I’ll rephrase my question. How many pairs of feet do you have?’

‘One, but that’s totally different and you know it. I need different shoes for different outfits. A car is a car. It gets you from A to B and that’s all you need it to do.’

‘I use my cars in much the same way you would use shoes. It depends on my mood.’

‘So what sort of mood are you in on a Lamborghini day?’ she asked, twisting slightly to look at him.

He returned her look with a dark glint in his deep brown eyes. ‘You’d better put your seat belt on, Emily,’ he warned. ‘You’re in for one hell of a ride.’

Emily sucked in her breath and snapped the belt into
place. But, although his driving was both fast and powerful, somehow she knew he wasn’t talking about the car.

Emily didn’t know whether to be relieved or resentful when she heard nothing from Damien Margate for over a week. It was a long few days, especially as the owner of the restaurant she worked at had informed her regretfully that he no longer needed her services. The news of her dismissal couldn’t have come at a worse time. She was already a month behind on her credit card repayments, and the bank had called twice about the mortgage on her small apart-ment. Never had she needed an advance on a book more than now, but with the looming spectre of Damien Margate standing over her she had little chance of achieving it.

She found herself thinking about him far more than she wanted. She told herself it was because she was bored with not writing, but deep down she knew it was because there was something about him that intrigued her. On the surface he presented himself as a cool and aloof man who knew how to handle any situation. He liked to be in control and engineered it wherever possible. What she didn’t understand was what he was hoping to achieve by offering her a proposal of marriage. Did he think he could stop her from writing about his family simply by insisting she become a part of it? On the contrary, her joining the Margate clan, small as it was, could only assist her in her attempt to document Rose’s elusive life. She’d have access to information, private information, that would ensure the success of her book.

From her precarious position it was an attractive offer. He wasn’t quite the playboy his younger brother was, but Emily was starting to see that perhaps that was a good thing. Danny had been prepared to sell all the family secrets for a few simple dates and a mention on the acknowledgements page. Damien, on the other hand, was prepared to go as far as offering to marry her to stop her from revealing anything about his family. How could two brothers be so
different? What possible motivation could each of them have to act in such disparate ways?

The doorbell sounded, suddenly jolting her out of her reverie, and she opened the door to find the object of her thoughts towering over her. She stood in confusion for several awkward moments, feeling threatened and excited all at the same time. It was as if she was on the edge of a precipice: one step forward and she would fall; one step backwards and the jagged jaws of her desperate financial situation threatened to consume her.

Emily teetered on the edge. Her mouth tingled in remembrance of his determined kisses. Her legs trembled at the recall of his rock-hard frame pressing against her.

‘Are you going to stand there gawping at me all day or are you going to ask me in?’ Damien said.

‘I…’ She opened the door wider and he stepped inside. ‘I was expecting someone else,’ she lied, to cover her confusion.

‘Danny?’

‘No.’

‘Have you found a replacement for him yet?’ he asked.

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ he countered. ‘I’d hate to think any wife of mine had someone on the side.’

‘Your confidence is misplaced. I haven’t said I’m going to marry you.’

He pierced her gaze with his. ‘Bankruptcy is a serious state to be in. It can have all sorts of unexpected repercussions.’

‘So can marriage,’ she said.

‘That’s true, but I’m sure you’ll be adequately compensated.’

Emily hoped so. If she married him she’d eventually meet his aunt, and the chance of establishing a relationship with her would give her an ideal opportunity to document her life. Maybe Rose Margate would like and trust her enough to authenticate the biography herself, without
Damien being able to stop her. It was worth a try. Besides, he’d already assured her the marriage would be on paper only. She had nothing to lose, but everything to gain.

She took a steadying breath and, lifting her face, met the penetrating look in his eyes.

‘I can’t imagine why you’re so keen to tie yourself to someone who detests you so much.’

‘I told you before—’ his eyes glinted ‘—I like a fight.’

‘Aren’t you worried I might take the money and run?’

‘Try it,’ he said. ‘See how far you get before I catch you.’

Emily’s stomach did another little flip-flop. ‘So—’ her tone was flippant in an effort to disguise her nerves ‘—do I get a diamond the size of a cantaloupe? Oh, and I don’t like gold; I always wear silver.’

‘I’ll have a marriage contract drawn up tomorrow,’ he said.

‘A contract?’ She looked at him in alarm.

One dark brow lifted in an arc.

‘You surely didn’t think I’d enter into something as se-rious as marriage without a prenuptial contract, did you? I’m prepared to be generous—very generous—in settling whatever debts you may have accrued, but I’m not going to sit back and watch you take me to the cleaners once it’s over.’

‘It makes no difference to me. But I’m wondering what exactly it is
you
get out of this arrangement.’

‘I told you.’ He turned slightly so she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. ‘I need a wife on paper. A dependent wife will ease my tax situation, and in the process I get some sort of control over what you write about my family.’

‘I take it once I become your wife everything I write will have to be first cleared by you?’

‘That’s the deal.’

‘It’s not very attractive from where I’m standing.’

‘No?’

‘No. I’m not used to being scrutinised so closely.’

‘Don’t your editors keep a close watch on you?’ he asked. ‘Is that why your second book flopped?’

She hated to be reminded of her failure. It was like a sword being twisted in her gut and she hated him for bringing it up now, when she needed as much confidence as possible. She gnawed her bottom lip and tried to think of a stinging reply but her mind went blank.

He must have sensed her inner distress and changed the subject. ‘My lawyer will contact you. What would you pre-fer—church or register office?’

She shrugged dismissively, forcibly suppressing her ro-mantic dream of being married on a sun-drenched beach. ‘I don’t care.’

‘I’ll let you know the details in a few days. It will take me a while to organise things.’

‘Take all the time you want,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m in no hurry.’

His mocking laughter annoyed her beyond endurance.

‘And another thing,’ she added, before he could taunt her again. ‘I absolutely insist on my own room and my own bathroom. I don’t like sharing.’

‘I’m not all that keen on sharing either,’ he said. ‘And I’m not just talking about bathrooms. So if you’re thinking about entertaining yourself with an array of boyfriends, forget it.’

‘So I’m supposed to be celibate indefinitely?’ She stared at him incredulously, incensed by his double standards. Everyone knew he was having a rip-roaring affair with a colleague’s wife—Danny had told her.

‘For the time being,’ he answered evenly.

‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to take the vow of celibacy as well? I wonder how you’ll explain that to what’s-her-name.’

A dark glitter came into his eyes and she took a step backwards but came up against the wall. His hands settled either side of her head and she swallowed deeply, trying not to give in to the panic that thumped in her chest.

‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and bent his head briefly to brush his mouth against hers. She felt her lips cling to his, but before she could respond he stepped away from her and turned and left without a backward glance.

Emily ran her tongue over her lips and tasted him. She fought valiantly against the impulse to peer through the window and watch him drive away, but once she heard the roar of his car she gave in to the temptation, assuring her-self it was just to check what sort of car mood he was in today. She tweaked the curtain aside just a fraction to see his hand lift in a wave from the driver’s window of his black Jaguar. She hastily thrust the curtain back into place. She felt exactly as if she’d been stalked by a stealthy jungle cat, just biding its time to make a final, fatal pounce.

Emily left the lawyer’s office with Damien three days later, her fingers still tingling from holding the pen to the contract that had been drawn up between them. She’d signed her name and immediately felt as if she’d signed her life away—her writing life at least. Even though she’d read the fine print as carefully as she could, the words had meant very little to her. She’d been far too conscious of Damien’s lean brown hand resting on the table near hers as she bent over the contract. His long lean fingers had been splayed on the desk within touching distance of hers. She had imag-ined those very fingers touching her in places that would thrill her senses into fervent, panting life. The words had blurred and she’d hastily scrawled her name, hoping he couldn’t see how much he affected her.

The day of the wedding arrived with a speed that did little to settle the hive of nerves that had been fluttering in Emily’s stomach ever since she’d signed the prenuptial contract. She glanced at the wilting roses in her hand and wondered if they were an omen. The sticky heat of October had done its worst with her makeshift bouquet, but its biggest
revenge was on her hair and her dress. The former was tumbling from its diamanté clip in haphazard tendrils, and the latter was plastered to her back in sticky patches that made her feel uncomfortable.

She wondered privately why she felt so disappointed. It wasn’t as if this was a real marriage in any sense of the word. Damien had presented her with an offer too good to refuse. She still felt sick to her stomach at the thought of the bills he’d paid on her behalf, but tried to reassure herself that he’d known exactly what he was letting himself in for—as she had too.

A paper marriage. She couldn’t help a wry inward smile. What the hell did that mean? Clarice had been surprisingly accommodating at the news. She thought it was all a publicity stunt and encouraged Emily to milk it for all it was worth. Emily hadn’t enlightened her. She didn’t want to face her agent’s rage at her decision to postpone the book just yet. Besides, it suited her to keep her own motives for accepting Damien’s offer under wraps. They weren’t all that clear in her own head, let alone easy to explain to anyone else. She kept telling herself it was purely because of her financial situation. And because it would throw her into the pathway of Rose.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with the heat and fire of Damien’s mouth on hers. Nothing whatsoever to do with the crawl of desire in her belly every time he came within touching distance. She hated him, she reminded herself relentlessly. She hated him.

And yet here she was, standing beside him before the heavily made-up marriage celebrant, who looked like an extra from a B-grade movie, repeating her vows as if she meant them, listening to the deep voice of Damien standing beside her, a silver wedding band in his hand, poised to slip on to her waiting finger.