by Maisey Yates
The only person who knew about her mother was the lawyer she’d spoken to. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of telling anyone else. The fact that her own mother would do that to her. Her piano teacher had quit. Friends, people she’d toured with sometimes, were still busy making music. And she was alone.
In an old empty house with bills that she could never hope to pay. She’d been treading water until recently, working on a plan, some sort of solution … but now she was going under. And she knew she would drown before any sort of help came along.
Ethan knew he shouldn’t really be shocked that Noelle’s mother had betrayed her like that. A bitch like her didn’t care who she hurt. She certainly hadn’t cared about the pain she’d caused his mother. Not in the least.
But as much as he hated Noelle’s mother for her part, it was his father Damien who had to pay for the sins of the past. And Noelle was in the perfect position to make that a reality.
He ignored the slight twinge of conscience he began to feel in his chest, spreading to his arms, making his fingertips feel numb. He didn’t have time for a conscience. Noelle would get what she needed, and he would get exactly what he wanted.
Everyone would win.
Except for his father.
“Will you be touring again soon?” he asked.
Noelle had been touring since she was a child. He’d never been to see her, but he’d seen her name in the news frequently. She’d played at Carnegie Hall, she’d played for the Queen of England. She was a household name and had been for at least eleven years. And apparently, all of that touring had left her with nothing.
“I’m not touring anymore,” she said tightly. “My label dropped me because I couldn’t book venues. My publicist dropped me. My agent.” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “So, yeah, I’m pretty much done with music.”
She looked down, lashes fanning over high cheekbones that seemed a bit more pronounced than they should be. She had that cabbage-soup-diet look about her, like she wasn’t getting quite enough to eat. He couldn’t imagine her turning down his proposition, not when he knew she needed it so badly.
And he was tempted, tempted to come out with it now.
But it was too soon.
He was a master of the business deal, and tomorrow, he would set in motion the most important deal of his life. He wouldn’t allow impatience to ruin that.
“Come to my office tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll send a car for you around noon.”
“Why? So we can discuss where in my hundred-year-old rose garden you’re going to dig your inground pool?”
“Not exactly.”
He had no intention of turning her home into a hotel. He had no intention of purchasing it at all. Sure, a hotel here would bring in money, but that money would be nothing compared to the satisfaction he would gain by executing vengeance against his father.
Noelle, and her home, were the key to that revenge.
CHAPTER TWO
ETHAN’S office building was warm. Noelle let it wash over her as she walked into the open, stately marble foyer and crossed to an elevator that took her to the top floor.
Even the elevator spoke of luxury. She ached for it. For gorgeous hotels with amazing views and thousand-thread-count sheets. For heat, and for lunch that consisted of more than instant noodles with little freeze-dried chunks of vegetables.
For a crowded auditorium and applause meant just for her.
“You really are pathetic,” she said to the empty lift.
Yes, she really was. But knowing that didn’t make the longing go away. Her life had never been easy, she knew that. Sometimes she’d wished for all of the fame, the practice, the shrill voice of her mother and the stern voice of her instructor to go away.
But now that they had, she was faced with some harsh realities she’d never dealt with before.
She sucked in a sharp breath as the elevator stopped. Her stomach turned over, her hands shook as if she was about to go out on stage. The kick of adrenaline was addictive. It was one of the many things she missed about her former life as a concert pianist.
This was different though. The familiar spike of adrenaline was infused with a warm, honeyed sensation that pooled in her stomach and made her body ache in places she’d never given a thought to.
She clenched her teeth and took a breath. Focus.
She walked from the lift to a reception area and gave her name to the man sitting behind the desk. While he searched for it in the computer, she picked one of her favorite pieces—not one of her own, but one of Mozart’s—and began to run through the notes.
Pictured her fingers flying over the keys. Effortlessly, joyfully.
It was something she always did before a performance, to remind her of how prepared she was. That she was ready. That she wouldn’t make a mistake.
“Just through that door there, Ms. Birch,” the receptionist said, smiling brightly.
“Thank you,” she replied, keeping her mind on the music as she walked to the door.
She tried to slow her breathing, keeping it in rhythm with the legato portion of the piece. Slow and steady. Don’t rush. Don’t falter. Smooth.
She opened the door and the notes fluttered from her head like startled birds. She wasn’t prepared for whatever this meeting was, and there was no use pretending otherwise.
Because Ethan was more frightening than a theater filled with three thousand people. He was sitting behind a broad, neat desk, his large hands folded in front of him, his expression even harder than it had been yesterday at her house.
“Good morning,” he said, unfolding his hands and putting them behind his head, the action so casual it was maddening. That he wasn’t tense at all when she felt like a slight breeze could shatter her was beyond unfair.
“Morning,” she said, refusing to lie and call it good. “I’m here for our mysterious meeting.”
“Have a seat,” he offered, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
“No.” She wasn’t going to put herself in that position. Him behind his big desk, her sitting there on the opposite side like a child about to be scolded.
Being meek and subservient didn’t work. It didn’t keep people with you. It only made you easier to deal with. And this past year she’d come to see that she’d been being thoroughly dealt with all of her life. That was one good result of having a bomb detonated in the middle of her existence. She wasn’t going to play the pawn anymore.
A harsh lesson learned the hard way. But she had learned it. In some ways, without her gilded cage, she was stronger now than she’d ever been. Even if it didn’t always feel like it.
A half smile curved his lips. She didn’t like that. Because it wasn’t an amused smile, it was something else. Something sort of dark beneath the surface of the expression. “No?”
“I’d prefer to stand,” she said stiffly.
He inclined his head. “If you like.”
He stood then, and she felt dwarfed. He was a foot taller than she was, and broad. More than that, he just seemed to fill the room with his presence. The something else that gave people whiplash as they passed him in the street, trying to get a look at him. Mad sex appeal or something. She stretched her neck and straightened her shoulders. It didn’t help.
“I would say that this was business,” he said. “That it’s not personal. But that would be a lie.”
She swallowed hard. “Would it?”
“Yes. I don’t need the money your home would bring in as a boutique hotel. I don’t need the money that would come in from buying the family business, Grey’s. But I don’t want him to have it. And that’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“It was a nice accident, seeing that your home was about to be foreclosed on. I thought I might be able to help you out. For a fee.”
“A fee?”
“There is no such thing as a free lunch. Or, in your case, a free manor house situated a reasonable commuter distance from the city.”
> “You must realize that I don’t have anything to give you,” she said, her heart sinking into her stomach at the same moment that the back of her neck started to prickle. He must know she didn’t have money. Which meant he must want something else. And that couldn’t be anything good.
“You’ve never heard my name?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Should I have heard it?”
“I know yours. And not just because you’re famous. Or, more accurately, I know your mother’s name.”
“How?”
“Do you know the name Damien Grey?”
“I …” She almost said no. But it was a name she knew, not the last name, but the first. A very familiar name. “Yes. Well, Damien, but … it could be a different Damien.”
“I’m betting not. Damien Grey is my father, and for several years, he was your mother’s lover.”
As revelations went, it shouldn’t have been shocking. It wasn’t as though she’d believed her mother had been out having tea parties while Noelle spent nights alone in grand hotel suites before performances, but her mind had never gone there.
She did remember her mother talking about Damien, though. Meeting him. Staying with him. She’d been eight, maybe, when that had started and she simply hadn’t put the relationship in the right context.
“I always thought he was in the music industry,” she said, realizing how stupid that sounded. She shook her head. “But what does this have to do with me? Or is it all part of drawing out the torture that has been the past year of my life? I’m not quite dead yet, want to land the fatal blow?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
She gave him a pointed glare and drew on every shred of strength she’d been building in herself for the past year. “If this has anything to do with filling the position in your life that my mother filled in your father’s, you can take your proposition and shove it up your—”
“I’d like you to be my wife.”
She took a step back and sucked in air, choking on it, coughing and coughing while trying to catch her breath.
“Are you all right?” Ethan took a step toward her and she held up her hand, gesturing for him to stop. A gesture he ignored.
He put his hand on her back, his touch warm and … comforting, in some strange way. A connection. She hadn’t had a connection with anyone in so long. She wondered if she ever truly had.
She cleared her throat and breathed deeply. “I’m fine now.” She stepped away from him.
“Do you need something?”
She’d have to make a list.
Yesterday’s craving came back to her in full force. “A latte?”
He nodded and walked back to his desk, pressing the intercom button on his phone. “Christophe, I need a latte.” He looked back at Noelle. “How do you like it?”
“Vanilla. With whipped cream.”
He repeated the instructions to Christophe then cut off the connection.
“It will be here soon,” he said.
She wanted to cry, and it was the stupidest thing. Yet she couldn’t stop the ache of emotion that tightened her throat. No, it wasn’t emotion, she told herself. It was her recent choking experience. That was all. “Thank you.”
“Now, shall I repeat my offer or will it send you into a fit again?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I choked. Although if it had been a fit, it wouldn’t be overly surprising, would it?”
“Marriage in exchange for your home. Free and clear, not owned by the bank, but by you.”
Well, wasn’t that a bright shiny poison apple? Take a bite, dearie. “What’s the catch? Why me?”
“I thought you might have a bigger stake in this than a stranger would. Think about your mother seeing you in the news, rising back to the top on my arm. The simple truth is, I need a wife to get the company. And if that wife was you, if you were a part of taking it from my father’s grasping hands, well, it would be that much sweeter.”
“That’s … I don’t know. I don’t know if I can be involved in this. It’s …”
“Let me simplify it. If you marry me, in name only, and divorce me once Grey’s is transferred into my name, you get your house. And the rest of it doesn’t need to matter to you.”
“How can it not matter to me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “That’s up to you. But how do you think it would be for your mother to see you in the paper, to see you back at the top? In circles she can’t move in any more, not once you’re in them. Because then they might find out what she did to you. Maybe you don’t have legal recourse, but you can close her out of society. If I remember her correctly, that mattered a great deal to her.”
Noelle tried to think through the pulse pounding in her temple. “Yes. It did. Does.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to take a piece of that back from her?”
Yes. Yes it would. And no, she didn’t think she was bigger than that. Because all her life, she’d been nothing more than her mother’s ticket in. A chance for her to move in the circles she’d always dreamed of while Noelle did all the work to keep her there.
“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.
“How do you know you can trust anyone?”
Noelle thought of her mother. Of finding out one day that the penthouse in Manhattan was empty … and so was her bank account. “I suppose you can’t.”
“Time. A blood relationship. Marriage vows. None of it can ensure you know someone. But you have nothing to lose. You can only gain. You don’t have anything else for me to take.”
Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but she wasn’t planning on announcing it anytime soon. “But this would be …” She fought the blush creeping into her face. “Not a real marriage, right?”
“A real wedding. A legal marriage. But nothing more. Nothing permanent or physical.”
“Oh.” It sounded simple. Uncomplicated and … tempting. A chance not only to get her home back, but to have the bank stop calling and sending notices. A chance to show her mother she hadn’t won.
“In the interest of us knowing each other better, I’m going to ask you some questions and you will answer me. Honestly.”
Noelle blinked, the change of topic making her head spin. “Are you interviewing me for the position?”
“As any good businessman would.”
Noelle shifted, uncomfortable beneath his assessing gaze.
“I know you’ve never been married,” he said.
“No.” She shook her head.
“Do you have a man in your life? A lover?”
She nearly laughed. Where would she have kept a lover? In her suitcase while they were on the road? Her mother would never have allowed such a thing. Sure, she got to make time for men, but she would never have permitted Noelle the same luxury. Would never have let her compromise her image like that. And now … Well, she wasn’t about to bring a date back to her big empty house and tell him all about how washed-up she was over a cup of bargain-brand soda.
“Not at the moment,” she replied dryly.
“Good. It would have to remain that way for the duration of the arrangement. For appearances.”
“I think I can manage that.”
An answering smile curved his lips. “Excellent.”
“And I’ll get my house?”
“And then some.”
“What else?” she asked, hating that she cared. Hating that she was tempted.
“I would give you a settlement when we divorced. That’s in addition to all the media attention you’ll get as a result of our association. I attend a lot of events and as my fiancée, you would attend with me.”
The longing that assaulted her was like a great, dark pit opening up inside. Empty and huge, waiting to be filled. Needing it.
Parties and people and cameras. Luxury. Things that had been so absent from her life. A link to the girl she’d been, the things she’d had. This was a chance to have it again. She despised the weakness in her that wanted it. That needed it.
And yet she felt crushed by the desire for it.
There was a quiet knock on the door and Christophe came in, latte in hand. The wide-mouthed caramel-colored mug was like a vessel of life in her eyes. She hadn’t bought coffee in weeks, months maybe. Not even for the machine at home.
She took it in her hands and let the heat from the ceramic seep into her palms. “Thank you,” she murmured, her throat tight again.
Christophe smiled and made a hasty exit, as she imagined he was paid to do. Quiet efficiency.
She took a sip and was horrified when her eyes blurred with tears. She blinked hard as she swallowed the warm, comforting liquid, allowing it to soothe the pain in her chest.
She lowered the cup and looked fixedly at the swirl of thick cream on the top of her latte.
A flash of recognition mingled with the image of a headline in her mind. He’s offering you this. A way to escape. A way out.
And a way to prove to your mother that she didn’t win.
“So this would be a marriage as far as legalities go, but not … not permanent and not physical,” she repeated.
“Exactly. No one, including my father, needs to know the personal aspects of the relationship. But it is imperative we make it down the aisle. I came close once, and it’s going to take more than close to get what I want.”
She nodded. Tried to picture it. Tried to picture getting married. Funny how she’d never really thought about it before. She’d played at weddings, celebrity weddings, weddings for royalty, but she’d never once thought of her own.
Her scope had always been so narrow. She’d lived and breathed piano. Performance, composition, practice, drills … she had dreamed music. It had been her all-consuming passion and drive. And when it had faltered, her mother had always been there to push her past it. To make sure that she didn’t lose focus for even a moment.
It was good in a way. She didn’t have a romantic fantasy tied to the thought of wedding. A wedding was … well, it was paper. Paper with performance added into the mix. And she did performance. At least she had done it. She’d done it well, too.
