Marrying His Runaway Heiress

by Therese Beharrie

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he answered immediately. ‘And since I seem to be speaking to a reporter, let me clarify: all of this is off the record.’

  She lifted her hands in surrender.

  ‘I didn’t grow up poor,’ he said. ‘I had enough. My needs were more than fulfilled.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But...my wants weren’t.’

  He wasn’t talking financially, though it was true. He hadn’t ever had the courage to ask his mother for something he wanted. He didn’t want to be a nuisance or a burden. He made do with what she gave him, even when it meant he didn’t have the things he wanted. He couldn’t exactly complain about that when he had everything he needed, could he?

  ‘Your wants involved a private plane? Private chefs?’

  ‘Elena,’ he interrupted when she opened her mouth to add something else to his list of faults. ‘Is there a reason you’re interrogating me like this? I try to use my money in a way that makes me as efficient as I can be. I also spend a significant portion of that money trying to help other people. I have no doubt we’ll speak about that in depth in the coming week. So, why are you judging me?’

  ‘I’m not judging you.’ She shook her head. ‘This is all just...familiar. But at the same time, it’s not. It’s like déjà vu, except in reverse. This has happened to me before, and I remember that it did, but I can’t... I don’t...feel like it’s real.’

  Faint lines appeared between her brows. It was adorable. It was concerning that he found it adorable.

  ‘You don’t live a life of luxury any more?’ He didn’t expect her expression to turn to stone. ‘Wait—you don’t live like an heiress?’

  ‘No.’ She straightened. It was as effective as her putting up a shield. ‘I gave up the private planes and chefs a while ago. I even left behind the gold cutlery, diamond plates, designer cell-phone covers.’ Her eyes sparkled with challenge. ‘It’s been a tough transition, but somehow, I manage.’

  He couldn’t help the smile, but he didn’t know what to say. The research his assistant had dug up on Elena seemed woefully inadequate now. Or did it? He hadn’t gone through all of it. He hadn’t had the time. But he’d read her entire portfolio. Noted her earlier articles weren’t as good as her current ones. Her personal information hadn’t seemed important to him. He wanted a path to her father, not a relationship. It was foolishly naïve of him not to realise the personal information would have given him a clue to whether she was the right path to her father.

  In fact, now it seemed embarrassingly clear that she might not be in her father’s good graces. She was an heiress to billions, yet she was working as a journalist for a newspaper. As many other people had, he’d thought this was a flight of fancy; an indulgence. But now he saw she needed the job. It was her livelihood. She loved it, clearly, but it made her sharpness, her growth, the offence she’d taken at him attributing skill to wealth more nuanced.

  He wanted to know how that would affect his plans. But he also wanted to know why. Why was Elena supporting herself when her father could do so without feeling it?

  He needed to read the rest of what his assistant had dug up on Elena. For research purposes. For his plan. That it would maybe answer his other questions about her was irrelevant. No, those questions were irrelevant. There was only the plan.

  There could only be the plan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ELENA WAS BEGINNING to realise Micah’s intensity came in different forms. Amusement. Concern. Hesitance. Annoyance. She wanted to know what other forms there were. Would he be that intense in a romantic relationship? In a physical one? The thought turned her skin into gooseflesh. It was probably best not to examine why. Not that she needed to examine why. That was pretty clear.

  She blew out a breath.

  Entertaining her attraction to Micah was a bad idea. She knew it. Yet she still thought those inappropriate things about his intensity. And when he offered her the bed at the back of the plane to rest, she wanted to invite him to share it with her.

  Maybe she had altitude sickness because she was on a plane. That was what that meant, right? She’d lost her ability to think clearly because of a lack of oxygen or something. Except she was still thinking clearly. She knew Micah’s intensity was dangerous. His power was dangerous. Her father had both, and he used them without a thought of the consequences. Even if those consequences were people’s lives. His daughter’s life.

  Marrying Jameson will ensure your security for the rest of your life. Even if, say, you happen to lose your job.

  What he was really saying was that if she didn’t marry Jameson, she would lose her job. Her security. After her father had used his money to control her for the first sixteen years of her life, she’d fought for her independence. Her job and security came because of her efforts. They had nothing to do with him. But she had no doubts he’d be able to strip away the fruits of those efforts. He was powerful enough that if he wanted, Elena would lose the job she loved. She would lose everything else she loved—her house, her car, herself—too.

  She tried not to judge herself too harshly for considering her father’s proposal then. She hated that she was, but she hated what would happen if she didn’t give in, too. The entire situation turned her stomach. A work trip to Italy gave her the perfect excuse to escape the constant loop of thinking about it. Or so she’d thought. She hadn’t anticipated her reaction to Micah. She hadn’t anticipated that he would use the same tactics her father had to get her here. But they were cut from the same cloth. If she allowed it, that cloth would wrap around her face and suffocate her.

  She stood. She was feeling too restless to sleep. She’d let Micah have the bed for the next couple of hours, and she’d get a start on transcribing the interview she and Micah had had before the conversation had veered onto steak.

  She slid through the doorway that separated the bedroom from the rest of the plane. Then she stopped. Micah was there, pacing the length of the space. His shirt was open from his neck to midway down his chest, as if he’d started to change but had forgotten. He had papers in his hand, and he looked down at them at various moments during the pacing, his lips moving. He was clearly practising something. Based on the shirt, the way he ran his hand over his face, practice was not going as he wanted.

  ‘Do you want some help?’

  He whirled around, his eyes wide, and Elena thought it might be the only time she’d see Micah unprepared.

  ‘Holy smokes, you almost gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘Holy smokes? Holy smokes?’ She couldn’t help the laugh. ‘I thought you were, like, thirty? Thirty-year-olds don’t say holy smokes.’

  ‘I thought you were in your twenties,’ he grumbled back. ‘People in their twenties shouldn’t wear unicorns.’

  She looked down. Well, crap. She’d forgotten to change. She’d pulled on her favourite nightshirt when she climbed into bed. It was raggedy, admittedly, stretched so it fitted over her shoulders loosely, skimming her thighs. It was perfectly modest otherwise, and the vest top she wore under pressed her breasts to her chest so hopefully, they wouldn’t give him an eyeful. She absolutely didn’t want that.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Unicorns are a magical species that appear when you open yourself up to the possibility.’

  There was the briefest pause.

  ‘Are you saying I don’t believe in unicorns so they’ve chosen not to appear to me?’

  ‘I think that’s a question you have to answer for yourself.’

  Don’t suffocate, her brain reminded her. Yes. Yes, that was important. Why did it feel as if she wanted to forget it?

  ‘So—do you want me to help you practise whatever it is you’re practising?’

  ‘It’s Italian. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, we’re jumping right to the patronisation then.’ She straightened from where she’d been leaning against the doorwa
y. ‘In that case, I guess you don’t want my help.’

  ‘No, wait.’

  She hadn’t moved. The fact that he thought she had—and how much power that implied she had—shimmered through her.

  ‘Can you speak Italian?’

  ‘I can, actually.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Micah, stop this. You’re embarrassing yourself every time you underestimate me.’ She walked to sit at the seat he’d been sitting in earlier, and curled her legs under her. ‘Okay, first give me context.’

  He lowered to the seat she’d been in earlier, bracing his forearms on his knees. ‘I’m supposed to speak at this banquet once we arrive in Rome. It’s in honour of our partnership with Vittoria, which is—’

  ‘The handbag company there were whispers about you signing with. Congratulations. But please, continue.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But he gave her a How did you know? look. ‘I have to say a couple of words. But my Italian is...basic. I had a translator help me, but I think I’m screwing up.’

  She held out a hand for the paper he had, scanned through it when she got it.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s quick, to the point. Passionate, even.’

  ‘I don’t want my speech to be passionate.’

  ‘Relax. The Italians will love it.’ She handed the paper back to him. ‘I’m listening.’

  And she did, without comment as he went through the quick, to the point, passionate words. By the end of it, she thought she might deserve a medal. He was butchering the longer words, words clearly unfamiliar to him, though the easier ones he went through seamlessly. She took the page again when he was done, ignoring his questions, and tried to fix some of the words that had seemed too complicated for him. When she gave it back, he sighed.

  ‘I have to learn this now?’

  ‘Only if you want to sound better than you currently do.’ She shifted forward, putting her hands in her lap. ‘You don’t sound bad. Your peers will appreciate the effort, I’m sure.’

  He gave her a dark look. ‘You like having this kind of power over me.’

  ‘Not over you, over everyone. Must be the wealthy world I lived in as a child.’

  Now he pulled a face. It was all very animated. Too animated for the smooth, charming millionaire. He was clearly frustrated.

  ‘Fine, I get it. I overstepped. No need to rehash it.’

  ‘Man, you cannot take being wrong.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’ He stopped himself. Lifted the pages. ‘Thank you for this.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said sweetly. Didn’t move. When he stared at her, she shrugged. ‘You don’t want me to help you?’

  ‘I’ll call you in an hour.’

  ‘Why? Just practise in front of me. I’ll help you if you need it as you go along.’

  He shook his head, giving her a forced chuckle as he did. ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re going to make fun of me.’

  ‘Me?’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘I would never.’

  He didn’t reply. She shook her head.

  ‘You’re serious? Okay, I promise not to make fun of you. I swear I don’t deserve having to tell you that, but there you go. You have my reassurances nevertheless.’

  ‘This is a very different side to you.’

  ‘I can say the same about you.’

  She’d already thought that. As for herself... He was right. She was relaxing into her personality, despite her own warnings to keep her guard up. She needed to stay professional. She needed to keep herself safe.

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘My side, or yours?’

  His look was wry. ‘Both.’

  The way that made her smile told her staying safe was going to be hard work.

  * * *

  Micah had no idea how he could pay attention to what she said when he was still trying to get over the unicorn. But it wasn’t really the unicorn. It was the body beneath the unicorn. Her legs, long and full, brown and possibly the best thing he’d seen in his life. Her shoulders, visible through the stretched material of her nightshirt. She wore a strappy top beneath the shirt, so he wasn’t treated to the breasts he somehow knew would be free if she were home. Though the rest of the shirt was loose and gave him nothing else of her body, his own reacted.

  Tightened, tingled, made him feel like a damn teenager with all the need. And now she was teasing him, helping him, seeing through him.

  Seeing through him.

  He didn’t like it. Any of it.

  ‘I’ll practise. Let’s practise.’

  She gave a satisfied nod, her eyes displaying the same mood, and she took his breath away. The surprise of it didn’t help either. He hadn’t ever responded this way to anyone. The women he dated were always the same type. The women who moved in his circles. There was nothing wrong with those women; they simply weren’t who interested him. It was easy to stay unattached from women who didn’t interest him.

  He’d learned from his father that attachments would put him in situations he didn’t want to be in. Micah was his father’s attachment, after all.

  Whatever this was with Elena needed to stop.

  ‘Are you going to start?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. Yes.’

  He cleared his throat. Started saying what was on the page. It felt better now. More natural. He had no idea how she’d even known what would feel more natural coming out of his mouth. But he was grateful. He was grateful for her patience as he messed up, more times than he cared to admit. He liked the way she teased him as she corrected him, how there was no malice in anything she said. She wasn’t making fun of him; he’d conflated the ease with which she talked to him with that. Maybe because he didn’t know what banter looked like. What ease looked like. What friendship looked like.

  He stopped at that thought. Erased the memory of it from his mind. There was no friendship. No attraction. Nothing. Hadn’t he just told himself why there couldn’t be?

  ‘That sounds pretty good,’ Elena said after what felt like the millionth time they ran through it. ‘When do you have to do this?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Then you have about thirty or so hours to practise.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘Plenty of time to sound like a natural second-language speaker.’

  ‘Second language? Not first language?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t perform miracles in such a short space of time, sorry.’

  He bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. ‘If you had more time though, right?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled. ‘Seriously, you sound fine. Everyone there will love you.’

  ‘You should be there.’

  Immediately after he said it, he wished he could take it back. But then he saw her face. She...glowed was the best way he could describe it. It was like being in a dark room and having someone suddenly put on a light.

  ‘I will be. Though I don’t have this event on my itinerary.’

  ‘That’s strange.’ Since he hadn’t had Serena put it on her itinerary, he was lying now, too. ‘It should have been there.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She took a second. ‘Well, then, if it should have been there...’

  ‘I didn’t realise you could speak Italian,’ he added. ‘It gives me another reason to have you there.’

  ‘Another reason?’ she asked. ‘What’s the first?’

  ‘Er... I... You’re writing a piece on me. Of course.’ He swallowed. ‘You should see this.’

  ‘I will. I was just going to explore Rome anyway. It’s my first time in Italy.’

  ‘You speak Italian fluently and it’s your first time?’

  Her expression closed, shutting in the light along with it. ‘I took it at school with some other languages. I
thought I would need it for...’ She trailed off.

  ‘But you didn’t?’ he asked, even though it was clear what the answer would be.

  ‘No.’

  There was something so troubling in her tone that he didn’t push. He wanted to. The fact that he did told him he was getting invested in...in her, he supposed. It wouldn’t benefit either of them to continue down that path.

  ‘We’re landing soon,’ he said. Smoothly, because he didn’t care about troubling emotions.

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  She looked lost for a moment. Vulnerable. He shifted his weight between his legs. Reminded himself that he didn’t care.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.

  ‘I’ll...er... I’ll get changed.’ She stood and walked towards the back of the plane.

  You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t care.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he blurted out. Because he did care. No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. No matter how confused he was by it.

  She stopped, only looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Of course. I’m always all right.’

  With that, she disappeared into the bedroom. Again, he told himself that he didn’t care. This time, it was because she’d lied to him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AS A RULE, Elena tried not to be miserable in the morning. When her parents divorced, her father sent her to boarding school immediately. She’d fast learnt the value of mornings then. They were the only time of day she had in silence.

  Her first year, she’d spent thinking about what she’d done wrong. Her father wouldn’t have sent her away because of the divorce. She’d had nothing to do with that. It had nothing to do with her. Besides, she didn’t bother her parents when she was home. Her efforts before—the tea or coffee she’d brought them; the baking she’d done; the dinners she’d made—had received ambivalent reactions at best, annoyance at worst. She was doing what the staff did. Did she expect recognition for that?

  No, she’d expected love.

  But as she’d grown older she’d realised that wasn’t the way to go. She’d shifted gears. Tried to excel at school, or in extracurricular activities, because those were things people noticed. If people noticed, her parents would be more likely to notice, too. Maybe they would finally be proud of her. They hadn’t been. Though she’d come close, once, with her father. She’d ‘bested’ one of his business rivals’ children by passing her school year at the top of her grade. She’d carried around the approval he’d shown in that brief moment when she’d told him for years.