His Inconvenient Wife

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  She found herself thinking about him far more than she wanted. She told herself it was because she was bored with not writing, but deep down she knew it was because there was something about him that intrigued her. On the surface he presented himself as a cool and aloof man who knew how to handle any situation. He liked to be in control and engineered it wherever possible. What she didn’t understand was what he was hoping to achieve by offering her a proposal of marriage. Did he think he could stop her from writing about his family simply by insisting she become a part of it? On the contrary, her joining the Margate clan, small as it was, could only assist her in her attempt to document Rose’s elusive life. She’d have access to information, private information, that would ensure the success of her book.

  From her precarious position it was an attractive offer. He wasn’t quite the playboy his younger brother was, but Emily was starting to see that perhaps that was a good thing. Danny had been prepared to sell all the family secrets for a few simple dates and a mention on the acknowledgements page. Damien, on the other hand, was prepared to go as far as offering to marry her to stop her from revealing anything about his family. How could two brothers be so different? What possible motivation could each of them have to act in such disparate ways?

  The doorbell sounded, suddenly jolting her out of her reverie, and she opened the door to find the object of her thoughts towering over her. She stood in confusion for several awkward moments, feeling threatened and excited all at the same time. It was as if she was on the edge of a precipice: one step forward and she would fall; one step backwards and the jagged jaws of her desperate financial situation threatened to consume her.

  Emily teetered on the edge. Her mouth tingled in remembrance of his determined kisses. Her legs trembled at the recall of his rock-hard frame pressing against her.

  ‘Are you going to stand there gawping at me all day or are you going to ask me in?’ Damien said.

  ‘I….’ She opened the door wider and he stepped inside. ‘I was expecting someone else,’ she lied, to cover her confusion.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you found a replacement for him yet?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he countered. ‘I’d hate to think any wife of mine had someone on the side.’

  ‘Your confidence is misplaced. I haven’t said I’m going to marry you.’

  He pierced her gaze with his. ‘Bankruptcy is a serious state to be in. It can have all sorts of unexpected repercussions.’

  ‘So can marriage,’ she said.

  ‘That’s true, but I’m sure you’ll be adequately compensated.’

  Emily hoped so. If she married him she’d eventually meet his aunt, and the chance of establishing a relationship with her would give her an ideal opportunity to document her life. Maybe Rose Margate would like and trust her enough to authenticate the biography herself, without Damien being able to stop her. It was worth a try. Besides, he’d already assured her the marriage would be on paper only. She had nothing to lose, but everything to gain.

  She took a steadying breath and, lifting her face, met the penetrating look in his eyes.

  ‘I can’t imagine why you’re so keen to tie yourself to someone who detests you so much.’

  ‘I told you before—’ his eyes glinted ‘—I like a fight.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried I might take the money and run?’

  ‘Try it,’ he said. ‘See how far you get before I catch you.’

  Emily’s stomach did another little flip-flop. ‘So—’ her tone was flippant in an effort to disguise her nerves ‘—do I get a diamond the size of a cantaloupe? Oh, and I don’t like gold; I always wear silver.’

  ‘I’ll have a marriage contract drawn up tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘A contract?’ She looked at him in alarm.

  One dark brow lifted in an arc.

  ‘You surely didn’t think I’d enter into something as serious as marriage without a prenuptial contract, did you? I’m prepared to be generous—very generous—in settling whatever debts you may have accrued, but I’m not going to sit back and watch you take me to the cleaners once it’s over.’

  ‘It makes no difference to me. But I’m wondering what exactly it is you get out of this arrangement.’

  ‘I told you.’ He turned slightly so she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. ‘I need a wife on paper. A dependent wife will ease my tax situation, and in the process I get some sort of control over what you write about my family.’

  ‘I take it once I become your wife everything I write will have to be first cleared by you?’

  ‘That’s the deal.’

  ‘It’s not very attractive from where I’m standing.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I’m not used to being scrutinised so closely.’

  ‘Don’t your editors keep a close watch on you?’ he asked. ‘Is that why your second book flopped?’

  She hated to be reminded of her failure. It was like a sword being twisted in her gut and she hated him for bringing it up now, when she needed as much confidence as possible. She gnawed her bottom lip and tried to think of a stinging reply but her mind went blank.

  He must have sensed her inner distress and changed the subject. ‘My lawyer will contact you. What would you prefer—church or register office?’

  She shrugged dismissively, forcibly suppressing her romantic dream of being married on a sun-drenched beach. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘I’ll let you know the details in a few days. It will take me a while to organise things.’

  ‘Take all the time you want,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m in no hurry.’

  His mocking laughter annoyed her beyond endurance.

  ‘And another thing,’ she added, before he could taunt her again. ‘I absolutely insist on my own room and my own bathroom. I don’t like sharing.’

  ‘I’m not all that keen on sharing either,’ he said. ‘And I’m not just talking about bathrooms. So if you’re thinking about entertaining yourself with an array of boyfriends, forget it.’

  ‘So I’m supposed to be celibate indefinitely?’ She stared at him incredulously, incensed by his double standards. Everyone knew he was having a rip-roaring affair with a colleague’s wife—Danny had told her.

  ‘For the time being,’ he answered evenly.

  ‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to take the vow of celibacy as well? I wonder how you’ll explain that to what’s-her-name.’

  A dark glitter came into his eyes and she took a step backwards but came up against the wall. His hands settled either side of her head and she swallowed deeply, trying not to give in to the panic that thumped in her chest.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and bent his head briefly to brush his mouth against hers. She felt her lips cling to his, but before she could respond he stepped away from her and turned and left without a backward glance.

  Emily ran her tongue over her lips and tasted him. She fought valiantly against the impulse to peer through the window and watch him drive away, but once she heard the roar of his car she gave in to the temptation, assuring herself it was just to check what sort of car mood he was in today. She tweaked the curtain aside just a fraction to see his hand lift in a wave from the driver’s window of his black Jaguar. She hastily thrust the curtain back into place. She felt exactly as if she’d been stalked by a stealthy jungle cat, just biding its time to make a final, fatal pounce.

  Emily left the lawyer’s office with Damien three days later, her fingers still tingling from holding the pen to the contract that had been drawn up between them. She’d signed her name and immediately felt as if she’d signed her life away—her writing life at least. Even though she’d read the fine print as carefully as she could, the words had meant very little to her. She’d been far too conscious of Damien’s lean brown hand resting on the table near hers as she bent over the contract. His long lean fin
gers had been splayed on the desk within touching distance of hers. She had imagined those very fingers touching her in places that would thrill her senses into fervent, panting life. The words had blurred and she’d hastily scrawled her name, hoping he couldn’t see how much he affected her.

  The day of the wedding arrived with a speed that did little to settle the hive of nerves that had been fluttering in Emily’s stomach ever since she’d signed the prenuptial contract. She glanced at the wilting roses in her hand and wondered if they were an omen. The sticky heat of October had done its worst with her makeshift bouquet, but its biggest revenge was on her hair and her dress. The former was tumbling from its diamanté clip in haphazard tendrils, and the latter was plastered to her back in sticky patches that made her feel uncomfortable.

  She wondered privately why she felt so disappointed. It wasn’t as if this was a real marriage in any sense of the word. Damien had presented her with an offer too good to refuse. She still felt sick to her stomach at the thought of the bills he’d paid on her behalf, but tried to reassure herself that he’d known exactly what he was letting himself in for—as she had too.

  A paper marriage. She couldn’t help a wry inward smile. What the hell did that mean? Clarice had been surprisingly accommodating at the news. She thought it was all a publicity stunt and encouraged Emily to milk it for all it was worth. Emily hadn’t enlightened her. She didn’t want to face her agent’s rage at her decision to postpone the book just yet. Besides, it suited her to keep her own motives for accepting Damien’s offer under wraps. They weren’t all that clear in her own head, let alone easy to explain to anyone else. She kept telling herself it was purely because of her financial situation. And because it would throw her into the pathway of Rose.

  It had nothing whatsoever to do with the heat and fire of Damien’s mouth on hers. Nothing whatsoever to do with the crawl of desire in her belly every time he came within touching distance. She hated him, she reminded herself relentlessly. She hated him.

  And yet here she was, standing beside him before the heavily made-up marriage celebrant, who looked like an extra from a B-grade movie, repeating her vows as if she meant them, listening to the deep voice of Damien standing beside her, a silver wedding band in his hand, poised to slip on to her waiting finger.

  The ring was a perfect fit and Emily wondered if that too was an omen of a different sort. Damien didn’t kiss her, however. He simply thrust the ring on her finger and turned to lead her past the small gathering of his friends who’d come to witness the event.

  It was ironic that Danny, not Damien, was the first to kiss her after her nuptials.

  ‘Congratulations, Emily,’ he said, hugging her far too tightly. ‘I’m sure you and Damien will be very happy.’

  She must have said something in reply but later couldn’t recall just what it had been. She hoped it had been suitably polite and fitting for a new bride because she sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

  ‘Darling!’ Clarice Connor sidled up to her, waving the mandatory champagne. ‘What a clever girl! Now you’re related to Rose Margate! Just think of the fame and fortune to follow.’

  Emily gave a vestige of a smile. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I get an interview,’ she said flippantly.

  It was unfortunate that Damien chose that moment to approach his new wife. Guilt at her careless words flooded her face in flushing tides as his own face clouded in suppressed anger.

  ‘Having fun, my love?’ he taunted.

  ‘Ecstatic,’ she returned. ‘I can’t wait for the honeymoon.’

  He gave her a chilling look before he turned to speak to one of his colleagues.

  The evening was interminable. Emily’s fake smile made her face ache with the effort of keeping it firmly in place. She longed for a warm bath and a soothing cup of tea, but no one seemed in too much of a hurry to leave the new bride and groom to their own devices, so she had no choice but to go on pretending to be the happy, blushing bride.

  Finally it was over. The last guest left and the limousine transported Damien and her back to his house in Double Bay. He opened the door and waited until she stepped through. She hesitated, her last two alcoholic drinks giving her a courage that was more foolish than Dutch.

  ‘Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?’ she asked provocatively.

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with your legs,’ he said, brushing past her. ‘Your things are in the green room,’ he tossed over his shoulder as he threw his suit jacket towards the hall stand. ‘Goodnight.’

  Emily chewed her bottom lip. ‘Goodnight,’ she answered, but he’d already moved beyond the range of her soft voice.

  She waited until she heard the click of his bedroom door before she moved. With dragging steps she made her way upstairs and found the room he’d allocated for her.

  After a bath she curled into bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling above her. She turned over and clamped her eyes shut on the images of her wedding day. How far from her dreams had she travelled? A mocking husband who’d married her to stop her from writing a book about his aunt. What sort of a reason for marriage was that?

  Emily sat upright in bed. Perhaps her suspicions were right. Perhaps Rose wasn’t his aunt at all, but more closely, intimately related. Why else would he go to the sort of trouble he had? What she hadn’t been able to find out before should be much easier now she was married to Damien.

  Married to Damien. The very words made her spine tingle, but she didn’t know precisely which emotion precipitated it. She wasn’t exactly frightened of him—not really. He made her feel agitated, angry too, but she wasn’t in fear for her safety. She’d noticed on occasions how gentle he could be. Even today at the wedding he’d scooped up his friend’s little girl of fifteen months and cuddled her while she undid his bow-tie with chubby fingers. He’d laughed that deep melodious laugh and Emily’s stomach had shifted, wondering if…

  She slammed the pillow with one fist, knocking a lamp sideways with a splintering crash. She reached blindly to retrieve it but a shard of glass pierced her hand and in the darkness she felt the stickiness of her blood dripping on to the floor.

  The door flew open and a blinding light flashed on.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Damien stood in the frame of the door, his body bare but for a pair of silky boxer shorts.

  Emily’s eyes squinted at the sudden light and she clutched at her bleeding hand. ‘I cut myself,’ she said, stemming the flow with the edge of her short nightie, which left her long legs uncovered and her bright yellow bikini briefs on show.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I tried to commit suicide but failed,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ he rasped as he stepped over the broken lamp. ‘Let me look at your hand.’

  She unwrapped it from the hem of her nightie and his gentle touch as he inspected the wound made her want to cry. She bit down on her lip and fought against the tears.

  ‘It doesn’t need stitching, but it needs dressing. Come to the bathroom and I’ll clean it for you.’

  He hesitated when she didn’t move.

  ‘Emily?’ He peered at her as she huddled over her bent knees. ‘Come on, it’s not that serious. One bandage and you’ll be as good as new.’

  A tiny sob escaped and he saw the slight tremor of her slim shoulders.

  ‘Emily?’ He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

  She was crying in earnest now, and he bent down to her level, one determined finger locating her wobbling chin and lifting it upwards. Her blue eyes were swimming with tears and his chest felt tight at the raw emotion reflected there.

  ‘Perhaps we should take you to hospital,’ he said. ‘It might be a severed tendon or something.’

  Emily pushed him away with her good hand and stumbled towards the bathroom. ‘It doesn’t need stitching! I’m not crying about my hand!’

  ‘Then why are you crying?’ He followed her into the en suite bat
hroom, sidestepping the droplets of blood she left in her wake.

  ‘I’m not crying,’ she howled, reaching for the tap.

  ‘Don’t worry about the lamp.’ He turned the tap on for her and handed her a face cloth. ‘It wasn’t anything special.’

  ‘I’m not crying about the bloody lamp!’ She sobbed into the wet facecloth, her hand stuffed into a towel like an oversized boxing glove.

  Damien shook his head and gathered her into his arms, patting her slender back as she burrowed into his body.

  ‘Is your hand hurting?’ he asked.

  She shook her head against his chest.

  ‘Can I have a look at it again to make sure it’s not serious?’

  She nodded and unfolded herself from his arms.

  He unpeeled the towel she’d wrapped around it and inspected the wound once more. The blood was slowing and he opened the cupboard above them to retrieve a bandage, which he deftly wrapped around her hand, securing the end with a tiny clip.

  ‘There—that should keep the bleeding under control,’ he said with an encouraging smile.

  Emily sniffed and he reached out behind her and passed her a tissue.

  ‘All better now?’

  She nodded and mopped at her eyes.

  ‘Sorry. Weddings always do this to me.’

  His mouth twisted into an amused smile. ‘Emily Sherwood—you are absolutely priceless, do you know that?’

  She blinked up at him, her eyes still shiny with tears. ‘Isn’t my name Margate now?’ And with that she burst into tears all over again.

  He changed the sheets on her bed and politely left the room when she removed her blood-stained nightie to put on a fresh one. She was sitting propped up against the pillows when he returned with a glass of hot milk on a small tray.

  ‘You look about ten years old,’ he said as he set it down beside her.

  ‘I feel about a hundred,’ she replied.

  He perched on the edge of her bed and handed her the glass of milk.