by Lynne Graham
‘Right,’ Lysander retaliated with the kind of stinging disbelief that could only infuriate.
Colour winging an arc across her cheekbones, Ophelia sucked in a steadying gulp of sustaining oxygen. Unfortunately it only made her feel angrier than ever, particularly when he did not immediately offer her a seat. Striving for an air of composure, she approached some sofas that were arranged in a stylish semicircle by the tall windows and sat down without invitation. ‘I’ve decided that I’m willing to go through with the marriage plan,’ she announced with dignity.
‘So we are now in agreement?’
Her blue eyes glinted with the hidden fire of opals. ‘As much in agreement as we’re ever likely to be.’
‘If you’re not prepared to put your whole heart in this venture I won’t go through with it.’
Surprise and dismay attacked Ophelia at that unexpected response.
‘I have to be able to trust you,’ Lysander pointed out. ‘This won’t work otherwise.’
Although Ophelia had promised herself that she would not mention the garden until the very end of the interview, that statement broke through her self-control. ‘Considering that you’ve locked me out of my garden, trust would be quite a challenge!’
Level bronze eyes met her angry ones.
A rebellious little frisson of sexual awareness knotted low in her pelvis. Her breasts stirred, the tender pink tips tightening inside a bra that now felt uncomfortably tight. Her heart was beating very fast. She couldn’t credit how he could have that effect on her even when she was annoyed with him! Her colour heightened while she blamed her lack of experience with men on her embarrassing level of susceptibility.
‘I’ve locked you out of my garden,’ Lysander contradicted without a shade of discomfiture. ‘But it’ll be unlocked as soon as we finish hammering out the details of our arrangement.’
Her teeth gritted as she swallowed back a hostile response. It was the truth, even if she didn’t like it. He owned her garden. She tried to be mollified by his assurance that the padlock would be removed once everything was settled between them. But nothing could soothe the demeaning sting of being forced to toe the line against her will and rewarded for her surrender with something she had always considered to be very much her own and which had cost him nothing.
‘What kind of details?’ she questioned tightly.
‘You will have to sign a pre-nuptial contract.’
‘All right.’ Ophelia was unsurprised that his first concern was the protection of his massive wealth. ‘What else?’
‘To minimise the impact on our lives, I want our arrangement to remain a secret. The only people who need to be in on this are our lawyers. Have you discussed this with anyone else?’
Ophelia thought of Pamela and crossed her fingers behind her handbag and decided to fib. ‘No,’ she said.
‘I’m applying for a special licence to speed the process up. My legal team think that St Mary’s church on the edge of the Madrigal Court estate would be the most suitable location. I understand it’s still in occasional use and very private.’
Ophelia was taken aback by that suggestion. ‘Yes, it is. But I would honestly prefer a civil ceremony.’
‘It would be virtually impossible to stage a discreet wedding in an urban register office. Although I take every possible precaution to protect my privacy, my movements do attract a great deal of publicity. I’m keen to keep the press in the dark as regards our association.’ His rich dark accented drawl carried a pronounced note of finality.
Ophelia linked her slender hands together and studied them with fixed attention. Her ideas and opinions were not required. Everything was to be based on his needs and preferences, not hers, and he had already made up his mind. It wasn’t the details that were being hammered out, it was her place in his scheme and he was determined to keep their future marital status a deep dark secret. Ought she to be offended by that or relieved?
‘Although there won’t be guests as such, we’ll make the wedding as normal an occasion as possible in case the validity of the marriage is questioned at some later stage,’ Lysander continued.
‘Let’s forget the use of that misleading word “we” when I’m not allowed to have any input,’ Ophelia suggested dulcetly. ‘You know you’d be much happier telling it like it is.’
Lysander studied her with hard dark eyes across the divide of the coffee-table. Her crystalline gaze was screened, her full pink mouth at a slight pout. He was not deceived by this modest look, though his attention did linger on the ripe curve of her lips. He was wondering how she could put out such a sexual vibe when she wore neither make-up nor provocative clothing. ‘As you wish. You will dress like a bride for the ceremony and a photographer will record the occasion.’
‘How will the living arrangements work?’ she prompted tautly.
‘Easily. I’ll spend several days a month at Madrigal Court—generally weekends.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be very comfortable there.’ Ophelia was trying without success to imagine him taking up residence in a house that was full of history and charm but very short on luxury and convenience.
‘My household staff will take whatever measures are necessary to ensure my comfort and yours,’ Lysander declared. ‘Everything will be organised in advance.’
Ophelia dared to look up and, encountering his stunning metallic eyes, felt as if she had been zapped by an electric current that set every nerve and skin cell jangling. In haste she tore her attention from him and got up to wander restively round the room. ‘How long do you think we’ll have to keep up the pretence?’
‘Fourteen months at most,’ he told her, letting her know that the matter had been considered with care and reduced to as short a period as would be deemed acceptable in the circumstances. ‘But I must warn you that if word of the marriage leaks into the public domain, everything will change and we’ll have to pretend that it’s for real. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Ophelia agreed without really thinking about that possibility. ‘But in the meantime I just go on as if I’m still Ophelia Carter, rather than your wife.’
‘I may not want you to behave like a wife,’ Lysander hastened to assure her with sardonic immediacy, ‘but you will have to behave as though you’re in a relationship with me.’
Ophelia shot him a startled glance. ‘In a relationship?’ she echoed in bemusement. ‘I hope you’re joking—’
‘Why would we be going through this whole charade just to blow it by acting like strangers when we’re beneath the same roof?’ Lysander demanded with lancing impatience. ‘That is out of the question—’
‘But you’ll still have your…er…women, won’t you?’ Ophelia cut in thinly, both tone and lips compressed.
‘Not at Madrigal Court. In the light of authenticity, you will be the only woman in that household.’
Ophelia was interested to note that he did have some boundaries and relieved that she was not going to be expected to deal with his womanising activities and carousing on the doorstep, as it were. A split second later, however, she recalled the original argument and angry discomfiture gripped her. ‘But if people don’t appreciate that we’re married…for goodness’ sake, what are they going to think I am?’
‘My housekeeper who sleeps with me, an occasional lover, whatever.’ Lysander shrugged with magnificent disregard on the score of what her feelings might be. ‘Nobody is likely to rate the connection any higher if I never take you out of the house, and the more casual it seems, the less interest it generates. What does it matter?’
Outrage was roaring through Ophelia in an enervating surge. ‘It matters a heck of a lot to me! A housekeeper who sleeps with you, an occasional lover? How on earth can you suggest that I pretend to be either?’
‘I didn’t suggest it. Other people will choose the labels and award them as they see fit. But you’ll have to have some good reason to still be at Madrigal Court when I move in and start spending a fortune on the place.
’
Ophelia was so furious that her teeth chattered together. Her mood was not helped by the reality that he had picked yet another angle that she had not foreseen, for of course people would wonder what was going on when he moved in and she stayed on. Furthermore, while the same people would not dare to ask him impertinent questions, the neighbours were likely to be much more nosy and direct where she was concerned.
‘I’m not domesticated enough to be a housekeeper,’ she framed grittily.
‘It would be an excuse, not a vocation.’ Lysander had moved closer without her even being aware of it and she backed a tiny step, her slim hips brushing the arm of the sofa behind her. ‘Forget the label. You will know the truth even if nobody else does. You could be staying on to advise me on the gardens.’
‘The gardens?’ His height and breadth and sheer masculinity had never seemed more pronounced than they did at that moment. Even in heels that gave her a couple of inches she felt overshadowed. Unwarily she collided with eyes that were the rich golden brown and tawny of burnished metal and a pulse at her collarbone flickered out her extreme tension. She couldn’t swallow and her mouth ran dry, even while she came to grips with what she interpreted as a genuine suggestion and one with a great deal of appeal.
‘Naturally I would pay you for your consulting services.’ A wolfish smile slashed his handsome mouth and just for an instant she was totally spellbound, her attention locked to his lean bronzed face.
‘You wouldn’t have to pay me to get involved in restoring the gardens!’ Ophelia told him breathlessly.
Without an atom of hesitation, Lysander curved lean fingers to her slender waist and pulled her to him. ‘You would be wasted outdoors, glikia mou,’ he murmured huskily, then he observed, ‘Your heart is pounding like a hammer.’
‘Yes.’ Never had Ophelia been more conscious of the fact. A little voice was ranting, No, no, no, in the back of her head. It sounded remarkably like her grandmother. She knew she shouldn’t be that close to him, shouldn’t be allowing any form of contact. But she was already driving a sort of devil’s bargain with her brain, because she was entrapped by the most indescribably powerful anticipation of what he might do next. Just another few seconds…because she was curious to see what it would be like if he touched her, she reasoned dizzily, just plain ordinary curious…
Then he kissed her and the scientific approach of testing him took a hike. That one kiss was ten, a hundred, times more powerful a temptation than any she had withstood before. She trembled as his sensual mouth played with hers. Her temperature rocketed up the scale. She was imprisoned by new sensation. Breath feathering in her lungs, she shifted closer of her own volition. He closed one hand in her hair and held her to his lean, hard body, squashing her breasts, curving her up against his long, hard thighs. Naked excitement whooshed up through her like a firework heading for the heavens. He probed the sensitive interior of her mouth with his tongue and she shuddered with delight. He tasted like the richest and most decadent chocolate, sinful and sexy and forbidden and like any chocoholic she couldn’t get enough of the flavour.
His breathing fractured enough to be audible, Lysander tore himself free. His bronze eyes were molten gold with hunger. He was stunned to register that he was already aroused to the point of pain; his only thought was to alleviate it. ‘Come home with me for lunch,’ he urged in a roughened undertone.
Shame grabbed Ophelia by the throat and tortured her then and there on the spot. ‘You’re not talking about lunch, are you?’ she mumbled unevenly.
Lysander hauled her back up against him with confident hands, scorching eyes raking her hectically flushed and confused face with masculine satisfaction. ‘Theos…I want you in my bed and under me first.’
The heat inside Ophelia, the wicked pulse of driving, overwhelming desire that had momentarily controlled her, turned colder than yesterday’s dinner. He wanted to bed her as no doubt he had bedded countless women. It was lust, nothing more basic, nothing less complimentary. No, he wasn’t that particular, but she had always believed that she was. Now she had learned differently and the power of what she had felt—the sheer blood-rushing, glorious charge of excitement—had taken her by storm. Her surrender had been terrifyingly immediate.
‘No, I don’t want this…I’m sorry.’ Ophelia forced out that admission in a state of extreme embarrassment.
With the striking animal grace that laced all his movements, Lysander released her. While her sudden rejection astonished him, it also brought a chilling glint of cynical derision to his metallic gaze. He had met many women who calculated that waiting would make him all the more eager for their bodies and all the more generous in the aftermath. Cunning feminine tricks turned him off big time because he had been targeted by innumerable stratagems over the years.
‘It’s not a problem. The timing is bad,’ Lysander murmured. ‘I have just one more point to make.’
Ophelia was disconcerted by the ease with which he dismissed that moment of intimacy and moved on. Still all of a quiver inside, she could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Initially relieved by his casual attitude, she could not help feeling insulted a moment later when she found herself thinking that her apparent attraction had proved to be very short-lived. Suddenly, and purely thanks to him, she was at war with herself on every level.
‘And that point is?’ she prompted, reaching down to relocate her handbag and move in the general direction of the door.
‘You need an image makeover.’
Bemused by that assurance, Ophelia turned to study him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Dressed like that, you won’t convince anyone that you’re involved with me on any level,’ Lysander spelt out.
Ophelia was affronted. She was clean, tidy and presentable. As far as she was concerned, that should be more than sufficient to satisfy. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my appearance—’
‘You require a new wardrobe and better grooming to take on the role. My staff will organise it—’
‘But I don’t want a new wardrobe—’
‘Of course you do.’ Arrogant conviction was stamped in every angle of Lysander’s lean, darkly handsome face. ‘All women love fashion and designer clothes.’
‘I don’t,’ Ophelia told him flatly, wishing she were in a position to tell him what he could do with his talk of image makeovers. But she was intelligent enough to recognise the problem: she was dealing with a guy accustomed to infinitely more decorative women who were always perfectly groomed and exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion. That kind of absorption in her looks wasn’t her style and never would be. For the first time she was being forced to appreciate how much control she would be relinquishing over her own life. It was the price, she recognised heavily, of having compromised her principles. He expected her to comply with his every demand.
‘Have we a deal?’ Lysander asked as though she hadn’t spoken.
The silence rushed and surged in Ophelia’s ears. Her fingers bit into her palms and she thought about the letter she would receive on her wedding day. Slowly but surely, the almost overwhelming desire to tell Lysander Metaxis where to get off receded. For over eight years Gladys Stewart had stubbornly denied any knowledge of Molly’s whereabouts. But what else could be in that letter but information about Molly? A makeover? No, Ophelia was determined not to let pride come between her and her wits.
‘Yes, we have a deal,’ she said stiffly.
CHAPTER FOUR
COSMETICS had wrought a subtle alteration to Ophelia’s face by adding definition and colouring. But to her frowning gaze her eyes and her lips looked uncomfortably prominent. Nor was there any way to hide her hourglass curves in the clinging fabric of the white silk designer confection that she had to wear for the wedding. Leaving her slim shoulders bare, the gown clung like an unwelcome second skin from bosom to knee before flaring out into a frivolous fishtail hem.
‘It’s so tight I can’t sit down,’ Ophelia complained thinly.
‘Brides a
ren’t supposed to sit down and please don’t tell me again that you’re not an ordinary bride. Go with the flow,’ Pamela urged. ‘Remember that when you walk out of the church all your financial worries will be at an end.’
Ophelia tried and failed to smile. ‘You should go home now. Thanks for helping out.’
‘Shouldn’t you be leaving for the church?’
‘I’m not in any hurry.’
‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t need me.’ Her friend stood up. ‘You look totally gorgeous. It’s such a shame it’s not for real.’
When Pamela had gone, the minutes ticked slowly past while Ophelia paced the floor of the drawing room. The chauffeur, who was waiting for her to come out, knocked twice on the door to tell her worriedly that time was moving on, but she still didn’t emerge.
Although only ten days had passed since she had seen Lysander in London, the run-up to the wedding had proved incredibly stressful. Madrigal Court had been awash with strangers who’d conducted surveys, moving furniture and wandering around tapping walls and lifting floorboards. Change had been everywhere she’d looked, but not once had she been asked for her opinion. Two firms had already embarked on emergency repairs and the noisy hum of power tools had put paid to all peace. However, Ophelia had enjoyed the quiet of the walled garden, which she had found unlocked in the evening after she returned from London. Then she had mused rather bitterly that not having slapped his face when he’d kissed her had paid dividends.
Lysander’s staff—and he seemed to have an endless supply of them—had toured the house to select virtually all the principal rooms for their employer’s occasional use. After agonising over the lack of luxury on offer and the wintry indoor temperatures, they had shipped in several lorry-loads of furniture, lighting, rugs, curtains and bedding in compensation and evidently intended to light an awful lot of fires. Cleaners had arrived to turn the manor house inside out, while a snooty foreign chef and his assistant had imported a free-standing kitchen and had taken up residence in what had once been the servants’ hall. Only Haddock was enjoying the fuss and furore of all the new faces and different voices.
