Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

by Nicola Marsh

  Perfectly natural occurrences where a person’s gaze was riveted by beauty, unable to do otherwise and that was exactly how he felt now, taking in her slight frown, pursed lips and thoughtful expression as she tapped a pen against the pad in her hands.

  ‘We’re forgetting something,’ she said, screwing her eyes up as if trying to see the missing info.

  From where he sat, the only thing forgotten was how damn good it felt to be with her like this.

  ‘Want me to take a look?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she answered absent-mindedly, not looking up from the pad. ‘I was sure we’d covered everything but…’

  He perched on the couch next to her, grateful for the opportunity to get closer to the woman who was driving him slowly insane with every flutter of her mascaraed eyelashes, with every teasing smile.

  Dinner had been a quiet affair and her genuine appreciation for his culinary skills made him feel like a god, yet the underlying tension with every glance, every smile, stretched taut between them.

  While she looked amazing tonight, her fancy top and figure-hugging trousers outlining her body to perfection, a body that beckoned him to trace its contours, to feel every gorgeous line, it was more than that.

  They’d slipped back into the comfortable camaraderie they used to share and he was thrilled. While he had no illusions about this marriage being anything other than what it was—a convenient business arrangement—it would be so much easier to be friends.

  Or more than friends, if he was lucky. He wanted her just as badly now as he ever had, the driving hunger startling and ferocious and capable of sending him bonkers.

  ‘Are you going to help me or just sit there with that goofy look on your face?’

  She waved the pen under his nose and he managed a rueful grin. He’d settle for goofy when, the way his thoughts had been heading, she would’ve been more accurate in describing him as drooling.

  ‘Let me take a look.’

  He leaned towards her, a swift stab of longing shooting straight to his groin as a waft of her vanilla perfume hit him.

  Vanilla: warm, sweet, tempting.

  Exactly how he saw her. The same tantalising scent she’d worn that fateful night ten years ago, the night he’d told her there would never be anything between them.

  He just wished he had the same self-control now, but with her inches away, looking like his living, breathing fantasy, a guy could only take so much.

  ‘This list has stuff for you to do and the stuff I can help with.’

  She tapped her pen against the paper in a sharp staccato sound, an action fast becoming a nervous habit, and he struggled to focus on her writing, more intrigued by the streaks of blonde through her copper hair and the way they highlighted her beautiful face.

  ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘This.’

  He tipped her chin up, drinking in her slightly flushed cheeks, her sparkling blue eyes, her glossed lips. Man, she was a stunner, and as a spark of desire flared in her eyes he knew this time he wouldn’t be satisfied with a few kisses.

  As he moved towards her she stiffened and pulled away.

  ‘We need to concentrate. The sooner we get married, the sooner I can really get started on my work around here and the sooner I get my promotion. Capish?’

  She sent him a nervous smile before waving the pad in his face and, though he’d love nothing better than to see if her desire matched his, he relented.

  The mention of her promotion did it. She was doing this for her career, as he was, with no place for emotions to cloud the issue.

  Scanning the extensive list she’d made, he pointed to the last few asterisks.

  ‘The licence, the legalities, all taken care of.’

  When she quirked an eyebrow, he shrugged. ‘Things get done when you have money.’

  A shadow passed over her face and he silently cursed his choice of words. If anyone knew the cause and effect of money, she did. Her father threw enough of the green stuff around to buy whatever and whoever he wanted.

  He should know.

  ‘So the venue’s all taken care of?’

  For the first time since she’d arrived tonight, his confidence wavered.

  ‘I thought the hotel garden would be a good spot? Beneath that poinciana tree near the pool?’

  It was a perfect spot for a wedding, or so he’d been told by many guests: the towering umbrella-shaped tree laden with bright red flowers, Noosa beach in the background, clear blue ocean as far as the eye could see.

  Britt had made him all too aware this marriage was a business merger, nothing more, yet he remembered how sentimental she’d get over the slightest thing and, while she appeared aloof with the planning, he’d bet his last dollar she’d want something a tad special.

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Her pen picked up tempo as she focused on the list, obviously eager to get this over and done with so she could escape. Accepting this marriage was business was one thing, having to pretend to like it another.

  Why did that rankle so much? It wasn’t as if this were remotely romantic yet somehow, ever since she’d returned—and returned his kisses—he’d been having strange pains in his chest, the type of pain he used to have when she was around all those years ago.

  She intrigued him, infuriated him, inflamed him and, though he tried to dismiss this marriage as a means to a goal, deep down he knew better.

  He’d always wanted a family, the type of family he’d never had, and the only woman he’d ever let get close was sitting less than a foot away with fiddling fingers and a wary gleam in her blue eyes.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘What about a notice in the newspaper for an authentic touch?’

  ‘That’s it.’ She jotted it down. ‘I’d call you a genius but it’d just go to your head.’

  ‘Try me.’

  He leaned towards her with the sole intention of brushing a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. He never got the chance as their gazes locked for a heated moment before she leaped off the couch.

  ‘Right, we’re all done here. Thanks for dinner, it was great.’

  She shoved the notebook into her bag, slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’m pretty tired, so I’ll head off now. Big day Friday.’

  With an overly bright smile, she practically ran around the room. ‘I’ll get a copy of this list to you tomorrow. We don’t have much time to get everything organised, so the sooner we get it done, the better. I’ll—’

  ‘Red?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  She paused mid-flight and took a deep breath, the simple action drawing his attention to her breasts and the way they filled out her ribbed top.

  ‘For a city girl, you’re sure behaving like a country virgin.’

  He expected a host of retorts, or at least one decent smart-ass remark.

  Instead, she glared at him, flushed a deep crimson and bolted out of the door.

  Brittany wriggled her toes in her favourite Garfield slippers, pulled her fluffy tangerine robe tighter and cradled a hot chocolate while scanning her emails.

  Not that she needed the extra calories after the mountain of food she’d consumed at Nick’s, but chocolate didn’t count, especially of the liquid variety. Besides, the way she was feeling right now, she needed comfort food, and this was it.

  Nick had been right, damn him.

  She had behaved like a country virgin, the exact way she used to act around him ten years earlier, jumping like a cane toad whenever he glanced her way; which had been often, though that hadn’t been the hard part.

  The hard part had come when he’d looked at her as if he wanted to gobble her up and come back for more. Several times.

  As for that almost-kiss…yikes! She’d deflected it with some pathetic line about needing to concentrate, but he hadn’t been fooled. She’d seen it by the knowing glint in his toffee eyes, by the smirk that had played around his kissable lips. And they were definitely kissable.

  She’d wanted that kiss s
o badly she’d almost tasted it yet had done the smart thing and fobbed him off.

  Smart for whom?

  For both of them. She wasn’t interested in making this marriage real. She had a successful career waiting for her in London, a fabulous promotion, good friends, a great apartment. Everything a girl could want.

  But what if she wanted more?

  If she did, Nick Mancini sure wasn’t the guy to give it to her. His life was poles apart from hers.

  His business was here, hers was in London.

  His heritage was here, she’d always craved to escape family here.

  He didn’t want a real marriage, a small part of her did.

  Huh?

  Where had that last bit come from?

  Sighing, she took a comforting sip of the creamy hot chocolate, savouring the mini marshmallows melting on her tongue.

  Unfortunately, as fabulous as her life in London was, there was one thing lacking and that was a real, steady relationship. Not some casual fling, not some short-term dating and not some modern equivalent of ‘being involved’—meeting once a week for a regular meal and sex. She’d tried these options and found them infinitely depressing.

  No man had come close to matching what she’d felt for Nick, had once had with Nick.

  And therein lay her problem.

  ‘Just great,’ she muttered, hitting the delete key on several joke emails and wishing she could erase her feelings for Nick as easily.

  She’d been back a few days and had already reverted to her old ways: thinking about him constantly, wondering what he thought of her, hoping he felt half of what she did.

  Pathetic.

  The last email in her inbox effectively distracted her from the Nick problem. Her boss had given her leeway to complete this job, so why send her an email with ‘Tight Timeline’ in the subject header?

  Clicking on the email, she quickly scanned the contents.

  TO: BrittanyLloyd@Sell.London.com

  FROM: DavidWaterson@Sell.London.com

  SUBJECT: Tight Timeline

  Hi Brittany,

  How’s my number one marketing guru enjoying her trip Down Under? Working hard, I hope.

  I know we left your timeline fairly open for this pitch, but there’s a change in plans.

  Looks like Sell is expanding the NY office sooner than we thought and they want me to head it up ASAP, which means my job here needs to be filled within three months.

  To be fair to all prospective candidates, we’d need your pitch presented in eight weeks.

  Hope this is viable. If not, contact me.

  We’re expecting big things from you, don’t let us down.

  David

  Brittany rubbed a weary hand across her eyes and quickly reread the email.

  Eight weeks.

  Two brief months to collate information, take pictures and perfect her pitch. Oh, and throw in a snap wedding.

  What was she thinking?

  But if the wedding didn’t happen, she wouldn’t have access to the farm, and no access meant no chance at the promotion anyway.

  Her hands were tied. So why did it feel as if her insides were following suit?

  Off the record, David had virtually assured her the MD role if she presented a killer pitch. She should be doing cartwheels.

  Instead, the longer she stared at her boss’s email, the more aware she became of exactly how far away London was from Noosa…and her soon-to-be husband who resided there.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘THIS place has changed so much.’

  Brittany’s head swivelled from side to side as she strolled up Hastings Street, Noosa’s main thoroughfare, with Nick.

  ‘Boutiques, cafés, restaurants, five-star hotels. We almost rival London in the trendy stakes, huh?’

  ‘Almost.’

  London had a vibe all of its own and she loved it, and coming home to find Noosa had turned hip and cosmopolitan was a nice surprise.

  Nick laid a hand on her arm and she stopped, more startled by his touch than the mini-city’s transformation. ‘There is one thing we didn’t discuss the other night.’

  Just one? She could think of several, including how platonic this marriage would be, where they would live, how long they’d keep up the pretence. And that was just for starters.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How long you’re sticking around for.’

  She had to tell him the truth, had to tell him they had eight weeks to make it look as if they had a pretend marriage for real.

  Shrugging, she pointed to the tapas bar they’d stopped outside.

  ‘All depends on how long the job takes. Fancy a snack? I’m starving.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He led her into the bar, to a cosy table in the furthest corner, and ordered for them before turning that penetrating dark gaze back on her.

  ‘So are we talking two months? Four? Longer?’

  ‘You’re really hung up on this timeline thing, aren’t you?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t call it a hang-up. An honest answer will do.’

  Hating the little white lie she had to tell, she said, ‘As long as it takes. I have the workers in place, so once we’re married I can really get stuck in.’

  She picked at an olive from a tray that had been placed in front of them. ‘I guess you want to know what happens after I’m done.’

  To her surprise, he shook his head. ‘Not really. I’m more concerned with the here and now, and solidifying my reputation with investors.’

  She could leave well enough alone. In fact, she’d rather be discussing anything than their cold, calculating marriage scheduled for the morning. But if she left in two months as planned, where would that leave Nick and his precious reputation?

  ‘So when I leave…’

  She trailed off, not wanting to voice her doubts out loud. The way she saw it, she was getting the better end of this deal: full access to the farm to nail her promotion then she walked, back to her old life, leaving Nick to fend off curiosity about why his marriage fell apart so quickly and the possible financial fallout from his investors.

  ‘When you leave, I act like nothing is wrong. We’ll have a modern marriage, where we spend several months of the year together and have highly successful careers on different continents. Business people understand that.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s nobody’s concern but ours,’ he said, his tone cool and confident, at odds with the banked heat in his enigmatic gaze. ‘This is going to work. Trust me.’

  He placed a hand over hers before she could blink and rather than pulling away, the sane thing to do, she turned hers over and curled her fingers through his.

  With a squeeze, he smiled and her heart flip-flopped in predictable fashion.

  ‘That’s my girl. So, you ready for tomorrow?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  She’d found a dress in a high-end boutique, shoes to match and had booked a hairdresser appointment.

  Did a simple outfit constitute ready? A smart up-do? In reality, she’d never be ready to walk down the aisle with the only guy she’d ever really loved, knowing their marriage was fake.

  ‘About the honeymoon…’

  She snapped her gaze to his, not liking the naughty twinkle in his one little bit. ‘A honeymoon isn’t part of the deal.’

  She all but yanked her hand out of his on the pretext of reaching for her water glass. He shrugged, a roguish smile playing about his mouth, and in that moment she wished she could take it back.

  She’d always been a sucker for that smile, from the first moment he’d squatted to pick up her books strewn in the dirt when she’d tumbled off the bus the day they’d met.

  He’d smiled his way into her life, her heart, and she’d be damned if she sat here and let him do it all over again.

  ‘Okay, no honeymoon.’

  ‘Good.’

  She folded her arms, glared at him. With little effect if his growing grin was any in
dication.

  ‘But we do need to have a wedding night.’

  ‘No way—’

  ‘This marriage has to look real. I’m a prominent businessman in the area and if we don’t go away, we’d have to do something special for our wedding night, otherwise people would talk.’

  He had a point, damn him.

  No biggie. They could share a room; didn’t mean they’d have to do anything in it.

  ‘Fine,’ she gritted out, her admission as painful as the time she’d had to admit she’d sent him that secret admirer Valentine’s card in eighth grade.

  Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

  Hating the surge of lust that made her knees shake beneath the table, she managed a mute nod while sending a silent prayer heavenward for strength.

  She had a feeling she’d need it to resist what the reformed bad boy had in mind come tomorrow.

  Brittany’s hand shook as she waved the mascara wand over her lashes and she blinked several times, grateful she’d chosen the waterproof kind.

  She’d already been near tears twice, first when she’d opened the door to a gorgeous bouquet of frangipanis and then when she’d carefully hung her wedding dress encased in plastic on the back of the door.

  Nick had sent the flowers. His note had been brief.

  For my bride

  Nick, x

  While the flowers were breathtaking, that one little x had her clutching them and burying her nose in their heady fragrance, her eyes filling to the brim.

  She wanted his kisses, wanted him, and, no matter how many times she told herself this wedding was a necessity to be free of her past, she knew when she walked up the aisle shortly she’d want him more than ever.

  As for her dress…

  She’d wanted to buy something understated, practical, a dress she could wear again, for why spend money on a real dress when this marriage would be far from real?

  That was before she laid eyes on the strapless, sweetheart gown in ruched ivory silk chiffon and her neglected romantic soul demanded she buy it.

  And she had, for when she touched the dress she imagined magic.