Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband

by Yvonne Lindsay

  As he settled into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine, he was too wound up to appreciate the roar of the six-cylinder turbo, and it bothered him that he’d let Amira get under his skin like that. Thankfully the journey from her home on the northern slopes of Remuera to the restaurant on the waterfront was only a short one. Inside of fifteen minutes they were walking along the sidewalk toward the Italian place that had been the scene of so many of their secrets and shared whispers so long ago.

  They stepped inside to a bustling and busy atmosphere. The maître d’ led them toward the cozily lit table for two in the back corner. Brent rested his hand at the small of Amira’s back, smiling slightly to himself as he felt her flinch, then relax, beneath his touch. Well, she’d have to get used to it if she wanted to carry this off. No one would believe an engagement between a couple who never touched.

  Heads turned and conversation stopped as they settled at their table, before resuming again more audibly than before. He heard their names being whispered, heard the questions hanging in the air. The rumor mills would be working overtime by morning.

  While he was no stranger to the press, he loathed this kind of publicity—being under the microscope for others’ entertainment. He’d had enough of that when his first business venture had collapsed, and with Amira’s simultaneous abandonment of him it had reached fever pitch. Nowadays he only dealt with the press on his terms and when it would benefit his business.

  He was glad that despite the surrounding noise and diners they were afforded some privacy by the partial screening of a large potted palm. As they accepted menus, Brent leaned forward.

  “Seems we’re already the topic of discussion here. You okay with that?”

  Amira looked surprised. “Of course,” she replied. “Did you expect I’d cut and run at the first sign of interest? You forget; I’m quite used to it.”

  Brent shifted back in his seat. Used to it? If anything she looked bored by it. “So it won’t bother you that we’re going to be the focus of gossip tomorrow.”

  “It will only be gossip. You know that. I know that. It’s all that matters. Besides, when we announce our engagement the forerunning publicity will have been good.”

  “Good? Why so?”

  “Well, we’ll be able to get a far higher price for our story if there’s been enough speculation about our romance being rekindled, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, definitely,” he said before picking up his menu and studying it carefully.

  A cold ball of lead solidified in the pit of Brent’s stomach. There it was again. Money. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but it angered him that her unabashed focus remained the same. For a moment when he’d arrived at her place this evening he’d caught a glimpse of the Amira he’d fallen in love with the first time. The unguarded, private version. But, as she’d just proven with her comment, the real Amira Forsythe sat before him now. The woman who’d greeted him in disarray at her front door was no more real than a chimera.

  It wasn’t too late to pull out of this charade. He could get up from this table and leave right now. If he did that though, he’d be denied the satisfaction of seeing through his own agenda, and he’d thought about that a lot today. About how he could show her what she’d really said no to when she’d chosen not to fulfill her promise to marry him. By the time she realized what she’d missed out on, he would have his reward. And hopefully, he’d have managed to rid his system of the ghost of her memory for good.

  “So when do you think we should make the engagement announcement? Is a week too soon?” She interrupted his thoughts.

  “A week?” Brent was surprised she wanted to move this all so quickly. “Don’t you think that’s a little too soon after your grandmother’s death. After all, it’s only been what? Six weeks?”

  “Hmm.” Amira tore a piece off the garlic pizza bread that had been delivered in a basket to their table while they pondered their order. A worried little frown appeared between her brows. “Well, it isn’t as if we don’t already know one another, is it? A month would be too long so why don’t we compromise with a fortnight?”

  “A fortnight?” Brent took a sip of the excellent red wine their waiter had poured at his request, then nodded. “Yeah, I think that would be okay.”

  Amira continued. “And what about the wedding, we’re in mid-March now. The soonest I could fit it in would be late May or early June—Queen’s birthday weekend probably. Are you free then?”

  “Queen’s birthday? Yeah, why not?” Since the wedding wasn’t going to happen, he really didn’t give a toss. He continued. “If you can get it all sorted by then, that’ll be fine. I have business commitments after that which would make a wedding impossible before Christmas, and I’m sure you don’t want to wait that long to access your inheritance.”

  While it wasn’t strictly true, he saw no reason not to apply his own timeline to her plans.

  Amira toyed with the stem of her wineglass, attracting his attention to her long slender fingers, the tips manicured within an inch of perfection. Not so much as a chip of nail polish to mar the facade she presented to the world. He wondered briefly if she’d remain this immaculate when her world fell apart.

  “Of course, we won’t be able to book anything decent at such short notice.” She worried at her lower lip with her teeth before speaking again. “We could always do it at the mansion. There’s enough room, and we don’t need as many guests as last time. I’ll get some publicity people to organize it as soon as possible.”

  “Publicity people?” This whole situation was crazy enough as it was without turning it into a three-ring circus.

  “Well, there’s a great deal to juggle between your commitments and mine. I want everything to have the greatest impact.” She hesitated and looked at him. “This is a business arrangement after all. We can’t leave anything to chance.”

  “No. We can’t.”

  He shouldn’t have been all that surprised, though, he reminded himself. She was brilliant at playing the media. In her token position as glamour spokesperson for the numerous charities her grandmother had favored, she’d perfected her role. It was only to be expected that he, and their wedding, would be given the same polished treatment.

  Besides, this time around it was as different from their last wedding plan as chalk was from cheese. They’d made all their plans together—and look at how that had all turned out, he reminded himself ironically. She was right. It was better to leave this in the hands of a neutral third party.

  “How about someone who can handle the organization and publicity releases together? Can you think of anyone who could handle both? The less people involved in this the better. Less room for the truth to come out,” he suggested.

  “I’ll go through a few names I have and compile a short list to discuss with you. We can interview them together if you like. No point in choosing someone you’re not at ease with.”

  “Good of you to realize that,” he answered drily. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes, but there’s just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Amira drew in a deep breath before continuing. “How we present ourselves in public. I know I said I wasn’t interested in the—” She suddenly looked uncomfortable, a blush coloring her cheeks. “You know. The physical side of things, but I’ve been thinking it would probably be best if we were to act like any normal couple in love.”

  Brent reached across the table and uncurled her fisted fingers from where they lay on the tablecloth. His thumb stroked over her knuckles, back and forth. Her eyes flew open and her mouth formed a small O of surprise.

  “Like this, you mean?”

  She moistened her lips, and he found himself watching the pink tip of her tongue with intense interest.

  “Yes, exactly like that,” she eventually managed.

  He let her hand go and sat up straight. “Sure, no problem. I think I can convince anyone watching that we struggle to keep our hands off one another. H
ow about you?”

  “I…I’ll manage,” Amira said, hiding behind the large menu, effectively ending the conversation before he could provoke her further.

  The rest of their evening passed comfortably enough and they coordinated their coming week as to when they could be seen going out together. Amira had a full schedule of engagements for various charity functions, and she’d made it clear she needed him to escort her.

  It was as Brent signed for the bill that a bustle of activity drew his attention to the entrance of the restaurant. The maître d’ rushed over to him, a worried look on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Colby. I can assure you that none of my staff made the call that brought those people here.”

  A small, but growing, collection of paparazzi now jostled for position on the pavement, held back by three of the waitstaff from the restaurant.

  “Can we use the back entrance?” Brent asked.

  “No. Don’t worry. We’ll go through the front,” Amira interrupted before the maître d’ could reply. “Perhaps it might be an idea to get someone to bring your car around, though. Save us being hounded all the way to the car park.”

  There was something in Amira’s tone that made Brent assess her carefully after he handed his keys to one of the waitstaff and gave instructions on where his car was parked.

  “You don’t sound surprised that this is happening.”

  “I’m not. I made a few calls this afternoon.”

  “You organized this to happen?”

  “Of course. Is that a problem?”

  She sat there, as serene as a swan on a smooth lake. The engineer of the bedlam they would be subjected to on leaving the restaurant. He had to hand it to her. She was playing this for all it was worth.

  The roar of his car as it was brought to the front, followed by a cacophony of protest from drivers restricted from passing the vehicle where it was double parked on the busy road, drew him to his feet.

  “No. Come on, then,” he said, determinedly taking Amira’s hand in his. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The maître d’ walked in front of them, hands raised as if he could ward off the intrusive flash of the cameras and the volley of questions that filled the air. Brent held the passenger door of the Porsche open for Amira and gritted his teeth as she took her time settling into the car. She acted as if she was oblivious to the craziness around them, but he knew she was angling for the best shots as she smiled up at him, the expression on her face luminescent. Finally she was finished, her profile a perfect cameo of disinterest in the paparazzi. Brent strode around to the other side of the car and slid in behind the wheel.

  He gunned the engine to a squeal of protest from the tires and pulled out into Tamaki Drive and away from the chaos he loathed. If tonight was a sign of things to come, this was going to be one of the hardest projects he’d ever undertaken. As a fire lit deep in his belly, he acknowledged that there was nothing he liked better than a challenge.

  Four

  “Did you want to come in for a nightcap?” Amira asked, breaking the strained silence that had stretched out in the car during their journey back to her place.

  “Yeah, why not?” Brent agreed, much to her surprise.

  He’d been bristling with frustration since they’d left the restaurant. The square line of his jaw tense, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them—never once making an attempt at conversation.

  Inside her suite, she could feel the tension coming off him in waves. She decided to take the bull by the horns.

  “You’re angry with me,” she stated, sliding out of her Jimmy Choos and wiggling her toes in the carpet before crossing to the antique drink cabinet and opening it.

  “What makes you say that?” Brent hedged.

  “Brent, we might not have spent any time together in the past eight years, but I still know you. You’re mad as hell. Why?”

  “I don’t like being used.”

  “Used?” She sloshed a measure of his preferred brandy into a handblown balloon and passed it over to him, before dropping a few ice cubes in a tumbler over a Baileys Irish Cream for herself.

  “I hate being a public spectacle.”

  “That was nothing, and you know it. It’s the fact it took you by surprise that’s made you so mad. So, for that I apologize. In the future I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “The loop.”

  Amira hesitated, her glass poised halfway to her lips. There was an undercurrent in his voice that shrieked a warning. She placed the glass down on the coffee table and sank down onto her couch.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You make it sound like I’m just a player in this, Amira. A chess piece to be moved around the board at your discretion. We’re both in this. We both have something to gain. If you don’t include me and if I don’t have some input into what is going to happen, you can count on not having my support. I can far more easily withdraw from our agreement than you can.”

  So there it was: his first threat. Amira thought again of the overdue wages, of the families who needed her help. Of the promise she’d made to Casey. A desperate sigh built up deep inside, a sign of all she couldn’t afford to let out, couldn’t succumb to. She drew herself up straight, as if she was on an upright high-backed chair rather than the deeply comfortable three-seater designed for sprawling in front of TV.

  “I’m well aware of that, and I have apologized. It won’t happen again. You know I have too much riding on this to want to jeopardize your commitment.”

  She allowed herself to relax a little as Brent sat down next to her and took a sip of his brandy.

  “To be honest, what you did reminded me a lot of your grandmother. She always did like to be the one pulling the strings.”

  Amira felt as if she’d been slapped. She lifted her chin in response to the carefully aimed hit. He’d never know how much it had stung. Let him score his point.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she responded.

  “Believe me. It wasn’t.”

  He reached over and cupped her chin with one hand, forcing her to look straight into his eyes. She could see the gold rim of color around his pupils and the striations of green and brown that tinted his irises. Her breath hitched as she allowed herself to fall a little into the past—to a time when they’d maintain eye contact across a crowded room as a silent form of communication to express their love. Then suddenly he let her go, breaking the spell that wound about her, reminding her of the gulf that yawned between them.

  Reminding her of what she had to do.

  If there was one thing she excelled at it was maintaining appearances. She’d never let him know how much he’d rattled her just now. She knew there had been no love lost between Brent and Isobel, and as emotionally cold as her grandmother was she had firmly believed she was acting in Amira’s best interests. Besides, despite her enemies, her grandmother had been an incredibly powerful woman.

  “Compliment or not, Isobel was highly regarded by the very men you need to get your waterfront project off the ground. Knowing how to pull strings, and which ones to pull, can be a very valuable tool, wouldn’t you say?” Amira managed to utter the words with a casualness she was far from feeling.

  “Speaking of which, when do you propose to sponsor my admission to the league?”

  “I can start tomorrow. Processing can take a while.”

  “Any chance you can speed it up.”

  “I’ll do what I can. It certainly won’t hurt for our new relationship to be in the papers tomorrow. The timing will be perfect. The league is a closed bunch, but they keep their eye on the pulse of what’s happening around town.”

  She might be Isobel Forsythe’s granddaughter but she lacked the kudos to make the same kind of demands her grandmother had been famous for—she only hoped that this time they would listen to her. They’d see Brent as an asset to the organization once they looked past his lineage and reputation, she was sure of it. A shiver ran down her spine.

&nbs
p; Everything hinged on making this marriage happen—even the roof over her head. The thought was daunting and reminded her of the fine line she had to tread. One misstep and Roland would inherit it all and then she, and her foundation, would be out in the cold. Literally.

  Later, after Brent had gone home, Amira let herself into the main part of the house. The air was still, almost as if it was waiting for the mistress of the house to assert her wishes.

  Her eyes flicked up to the life-sized oil portrait of Isobel, where it presided over the landing halfway up the staircase. As much as she’d learned to respect her grandmother, theirs had never been a loving relationship. The mere thought that she’d become, or even could become, like the old woman was terrifying.

  Would she too push everyone away until she died—old and virtually alone? Distanced from those she could have drawn close to her if she’d only shown a modicum of affection? With Amira’s current situation she could begin to understand what had driven her grandmother to be the way she was, even if she could never condone it.

  Isobel had married into the Forsythe family as a young woman with no more than a nouveau riche background and a fine arts degree to her name. Her union with Dominic Forsythe, the heir to the then-flagging Forsythe fortune, had to all accounts and purposes been a loveless match. Designed more to bolster the coffers of her husband’s family and to give Isobel’s father acceptance in the marketplace, she had made the best of a bad situation.

  It was ironic that Amira was putting herself in a similar position, albeit reversed.

  Dominic had swiftly handed over the reins of control to his new wife when her astute mind and business acumen had proven to be far stronger than his own. Amira wondered if her grandfather had ever felt emasculated by Isobel’s strength, or whether their marriage had eventually slid into one of comfortable companionship rather than one embroidered with passion and color. Her own father had been born late into the marriage, when Isobel had been in her mid-forties. He’d been doted on by both his parents, and when Dominic had passed away shortly after his son’s birth, Isobel had become even more possessive and controlling than before.