by Abby Green
‘You’ve done your research,’ Max said easily, but Darcy recognised the edge of something dangerous.
Montgomery shrugged. ‘No more than you yourself have done, no doubt.’
‘My relationship with my brother, my mother, has no bearing on my ability to manage your fund, Cecil.’
A lesser man would have quailed at the distinct threat in Max’s voice. Not Montgomery.
‘No,’ said the other man, looking at Max assessingly. ‘I think for the most part you are right. But my concern would be the risks you’d be prepared to take on behalf of my fund—risks that you might not consider taking if you had a different perspective on life. My fear is that, based on your experiences, you might actually be biased against the very values I’ve built this fund upon, and that it would influence your decision-making process because you have only yourself to worry about.’
Darcy’s insides had turned to stone. Cecil Montgomery, with a ruthless precision she’d never even witnessed in Max, had just laid Max’s life bare and dissected it with clinical and damning detachment.
She felt a very disturbing surge of something like protectiveness. A need to defend.
Even Jocasta Montgomery had put her hand on her husband’s arm and was saying something indistinct to him.
Darcy looked at Max, who had carefully put his own coffee cup down. The restaurant was largely empty by now.
‘You are right about almost everything, Cecil.’ He smiled, but it was a thin, harsh line. ‘I do come from a broken home, and my brother and I did suffer at the hands of two parents who really couldn’t have cared less about our welfare.’
Jocasta broke in. ‘Please, Max, don’t feel you have to say—’
But Max held up a hand, not taking his gaze off Montgomery. ‘I said that your husband is right about almost everything. There’s one thing his research hasn’t shown up, however.’
Montgomery raised a brow. ‘I’m intrigued. What is it that I’ve missed?’
Max’s jaw clenched, and to Darcy’s shock he reached over and took her hand in his, holding it tight.
‘Darcy.’
Darcy looked at Max, but he hadn’t said her name to call her attention and speak to her.
He was still looking at Montgomery and gripping her hand tight as he said, ‘You can be the first to congratulate my fiancée and I on our engagement.’
Darcy might have enjoyed Montgomery’s almost bug-eyed response if she hadn’t been so afraid that her own eyes were bugging out of her head at the same moment.
‘But... But...’ Jocasta Montgomery said, ‘Darcy told me she’s your PA...’
Max looked at Darcy briefly and through waves of shock she could see something implacable in his expression that forbade her from saying anything.
He looked back to the couple on the other side of the damask-covered table. ‘She is. That’s how we met...again.’
‘Again?’ asked Montgomery sharply.
Max nodded. ‘Darcy and I went to the same school—Boissy le Chateau in Switzerland. That’s where we first met. She came to work for me three months ago...’ Max shrugged, ‘And the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘Oh, Cecil.’ Jocasta Montgomery put her hand over her husband’s and looked at him with suspiciously bright eyes. ‘That’s how we met.’
Darcy felt it like a punch to the gut. She remembered that small detail now. Jocasta had been his secretary in the seventies, in Edinburgh.
Cecil Montgomery was looking at Max through narrowed eyes. Obviously suspicious. And then he turned his gaze on Darcy and she could feel her cheeks grow hot.
‘Well, then, my dear, it would seem that congratulations are in order. When did this happy event occur?’
Max’s hand tightened on hers as he inserted smoothly, ‘Some weeks ago... I knew after just a few weeks that Darcy was unlike any other woman I’ve ever known. We had a bond at school...and it was rekindled.’
Darcy was still too shocked even to consider saying anything, but she tried to pull her hand out from under Max’s—to no avail.
‘My dear, are you quite all right? You look a little ill.’ Jocasta Montgomery was leaning forward with concern.
Darcy sensed Max’s tension beside her, reaching out to envelop her, inhibit her. She knew that she should pull away, stand up, throw her napkin down and say that it was all untrue. This was her chance. She should walk away from Max right now and not look back.
And put a nail in the coffin of his chance to get this deal with Cecil Montgomery.
If she wanted revenge for what he’d just done that was what she’d do.
But she couldn’t get out of her head the way Montgomery had so brutally assessed Max’s background, casting doubts on his ability. And she couldn’t get out of her head the way she’d felt that instinctive need to defend him. And right now the instinct was still there, in spite of the rage bubbling down low at having been put in this untenable position.
She forced a smile and looked at Jocasta. ‘I’m fine—really. It’s just a bit of a shock to hear it made official. Up till now it’s been our secret.’
She risked a glance at Max and her gaze was caught and snared by his. It was expressionless, but something flickered in the depths of those extraordinary eyes. Relief? His hand loosened on hers fractionally.
Jocasta was making a tsking noise. ‘And my husband provoked Max into letting it slip? Well, I think the least we can do is celebrate now that your secret is out.’
Before Darcy could say anything else a waiter was summoned and a bottle of vintage champagne was being delivered to the table and expertly poured into slim flutes. It seemed to Darcy that everything was moving at warp speed, and her heart was beating too fast.
They were all holding up their glasses and Jocasta was beaming at them. Her husband was still looking less than convinced though and Max’s jaw was tight. Darcy felt an urge to giggle, and quickly took a sip of the sparkling drink to make it go down.
‘When are you getting married?’
Darcy looked at Montgomery, just as Max said, with all the natural-born charm of a ruthless man intent on his prize, ‘Two weeks.’
His hand tightened on Darcy’s again and when she turned to him he looked at her so intently that her insides combusted.
‘I want to make her mine before she realises what I’m really like and leaves me for ever.’
For the first time since Max had made his outrageous statement Darcy felt her wits return. She pulled her hand free and said with some acerbity, while holding up her hand, ‘Well, seeing as you haven’t even bought me a ring yet, darling, I’m thinking that perhaps there’s a flaw in the arrangements.’
Jocasta chuckled. ‘Yes, Max, a lady in possession of a marriage proposal generally deserves a beautiful ring.’
Max smiled, and it was dangerous. He took Darcy’s hand again and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss over her ring finger, making any of the wits that had come back to her melt again.
‘Which is why I’ve arranged to take my fiancée to Paris tomorrow, for a private appointment in Devilliers—it was meant to be a surprise.’
Darcy’s eyes opened wide. Devilliers was possibly the oldest and most exclusive jewellers in the world.
Jocasta made a noise. ‘And now we’ve ruined it. Cecil, stop goading Max. They’re engaged. Look at them—they can’t keep their eyes off each other.’
‘Well, then,’ said the older man. ‘It seems that perhaps your perspective is indeed changing, Max. However, I’ve decided that the announcement of my decision as to whom I’m entrusting my fund will take place at our fortieth wedding anniversary celebrations in Scotland, surrounded by my family.’
The Montgomerys shared a fond look and Max let Darcy’s hand go. Montgomery looked at him, and then to Darcy. ‘You will both, of course, be exten
ded an invitation. It takes place in three weeks. Perhaps you could include the trip to Inverness as a detour on your honeymoon?’
Honeymoon?
The full enormity of what was occurring hit Darcy, and as if sensing her dawning horror Max put a firm hand on her leg, under the table, just above her knee.
‘We would like nothing more—would we, cara?’
Max was looking at her, his big hand heavy on her leg, and treacherous heat was spreading upwards to between her thighs. ‘No...’
Max knew exactly what Darcy’s very ineffectual ‘no’ meant. It didn’t mean that she agreed—it meant Stop this now. But he took ruthless advantage of the ambiguity and angled his body towards hers, slipping his other hand around the back of her bare neck, pulling her towards him so that he could cover her mouth with his and stop her from saying anything else.
By the time he let her go again she was hot, breathless, addled and completely out-manoeuvred by a master. The Montgomerys were preparing to leave, saying their goodbyes, clearly believing that they were playing gooseberry now.
Darcy didn’t know if she wanted to stamp her foot, slap Max, or scream for them all to stop so she could put them right. But, like the treacherous heat that had licked up her thighs and into her belly during Max’s kiss, something was holding her back—and she was too much of a coward to investigate what it was.
They stood to bid goodbye to the older couple and Darcy was vaguely aware that the restaurant had emptied. When they were alone again Max sat down, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face.
This time Darcy did throw down her napkin, and he looked at her. Anger at herself for being so weak made her blurt out, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Max?’
Max cast a quick look around and took Darcy’s wrist, pulling her down. She landed heavily on the seat.
Something occurred to her then—an awful suspicion. ‘Please tell me you didn’t have that planned all along?’
Max’s jaw firmed. He was unapologetic. ‘No, but I saw an opportunity and took it.’
Darcy let out a slightly horrified laugh. ‘An opportunity? That’s what you call fabricating a fake engagement to your PA?’
He turned to face her, stretching an arm across the back of her chair, placing his other hand on the table. Boxing her in.
‘It won’t be a fake engagement, Darcy. We’re going to get married.’
Darcy’s mouth opened but nothing came out. On some level she had known what she was doing, going along with Max’s crazy pronouncement, but she’d also expected that as soon as they were alone again he’d reassure her that of course it wouldn’t happen. It had been just to placate Montgomery and there would be some method of undoing what had been done.
She shook her head, as if that might restore sanity and order. But he was still looking at her.
She found her voice. ‘Maybe it’s the fatigue, Max, or the stress, but I think it’s quite possible that you’ve gone entirely mad. This conversation is over and this relationship is over. Find someone else to be your convenient bride/PA, because I’m not going to be it just because I’m under your nose and you’ve decided that it’s appropriate to kiss me when you feel like it. We both know I’m not your type of woman. No one will ever believe you’ve chosen to marry someone like me—Montgomery patently didn’t believe a word of it—so in the end it’ll achieve nothing.’
Darcy was breathless after the tumult of words and stood up on shaky legs. Before Max could stop her she turned to walk quickly through the restaurant, reality slamming back into her with each step. And humiliation. Max had seen an opportunity, all right—a cheap one, at Darcy’s expense. To think that he would use her like this, just to further his own aims, shouldn’t have come as a shock. But it did.
* * *
Max watched Darcy walk away, rendered uncharacteristically dumb. He could appreciate her very apparent sense of shock because he was still reeling himself, trying to recall what exactly had prompted him to make such an outrageous statement to Montgomery.
And then he remembered. ‘You come from a broken home...estranged from your mother...brother...different perspective...’ He remembered the hot rush of rage when Montgomery had so coolly laid his life bare for inspection. Questioning his motives and ability based upon his experiences.
He’d wanted to do something to take that knowing smirk off Montgomery’s face. And in a moment of mad clarity he’d known what he had to do to push the man off his sanctimonious perch. Fake a marriage. To Darcy.
And she’d gone along with it—even if she had looked as if someone had just punched her in the belly.
Darcy. Max’s usual clear-headed focus came back and he went cold inside at the thought of Darcy leaving. She wasn’t going anywhere—not now. Not when everything was at stake.
* * *
‘Get in the car, Darcy. Please.’
Darcy was valiantly ignoring Max and the open car door nearby. She was about to stretch her arm out to hail a passing taxi when he took her arm in a firm grip and all but manhandled her into the back of the car.
She sputtered, ‘This is kidnap.’
Max was terse. ‘Hardly. Take us to my apartment, please, Enzo.’ And then he hit a button so that a partition went up, enclosing them in silence.
Darcy folded her arms and looked at the man on the other side of the car. In a louche sprawl of big long limbs, he’d never looked more like a rebel.
‘You’ve gone too far this time, Max. I don’t care what you have to do but we’re not getting married—I’ve changed my mind, I’m not waiting until the deal is done. I’m on the first plane out of Rome as soon as you let me go.’
Max gave her a withering look. ‘There’s no need for dramatics. We are just going to talk.’
He leaned back and looked out of the window, clearly done with the conversation for now. Darcy fumed, hating the ever-present hum of awareness in her blood at being in such close proximity to him. He was such an arrogant...bastard. Saying the word, even silently, made her feel marginally better.
Within minutes they were pulling up outside a sleek modern building. Max was out of the car and holding out a hand for Darcy before she could think what to do. Knowing she couldn’t escape now, she scowled and put her hand into his, let him help her out, jerking her hand away as soon as she was on her own two feet.
Max led her into a massive steel-and-chrome foyer, where huge works of modern art were hung on the walls. It was hushed and exclusive, and in spite of herself she found herself wondering what Max’s apartment would be like.
With an acknowledgement to the concierge, Max led Darcy to an open lift and stabbed at the ‘P’ button. Of course, Darcy thought snarkily. Of course he’d be living in the penthouse.
Once in the lift she moved to the far corner. Max leaned back against the wall and looked at her from under hooded lids. ‘No need to look like a startled rabbit, Darcy. I’m not going to eat you.’
‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Just turn my world upside down.’
CHAPTER FOUR
DARCY FOLLOWED MAX into his apartment warily. From what she could see, as he flicked on low lights, it was as sleek and modern as the building that housed it. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered astounding views of Rome glittering at night.
Her feet were sore in the high-heeled shoes, but she would let them bleed before taking them off. She was still recalling her bare feet in the office the previous night—the cocoon of intimacy and where that had led.
‘Drink?’
Darcy looked over to where Max was pulling his tie out of its knot and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. He’d already taken off his jacket and he looked sinfully sexy in the waistcoat of the three-piece suit.
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want a drink, Max, and I don’t want to talk. I’d like to go to some cor
ner of the earth far away from you.’
He just shrugged, ignoring her pronouncement, and proceeded to pour himself a measure of something. He gestured to a seat. ‘Please—sit down.’
Darcy clutched her bag tighter. ‘I told you...I don’t want to—’
‘Well, tough, because we’re talking.’
Darcy made a rude sound and stalked over to an uncomfortable-looking chair and sat down.
Max started to pace, then stopped and said, ‘Look, I didn’t plan to announce an engagement to you this evening.’
‘I’m not so sure you didn’t, Max. It certainly seemed to trip off your tongue very easily—along with that very inventive plan to treat me to a Devilliers ring. Tell me, are we taking your private jet?’
Max cursed before downing his drink in one and setting the glass down with a clatter.
He glared at her. ‘I didn’t plan it. He just... Dio. You heard him.’
Darcy’s insides tightened as she recalled the sense of protectiveness that had arisen when Montgomery had baldly dissected Max’s life. The truth was that no one goaded Max. He’d remained impervious in the face of much worse provocation. But this had been personal. About his family.
Darcy stood up, feeling vulnerable. ‘I heard him, Max. The man clearly has strong feelings about the importance of family, but do you think he really cares if you’re married or not?’
‘You heard him. He believes my perspective will be skewed unless I have someone to worry about other than myself.’ Max sounded bitter.
‘So you fed me to him?’
He looked at her. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m just a means to an end—so you can get your hands on that fund.’
* * *
Max looked at Darcy. Her hair had begun to get dishevelled, falling down in tendrils around her face and neck. ‘I’m just a means to an end.’ Why did those words strike at him somewhere? Of course she was a means to an end—everything in his life was a means to an end. And that end was in sight.
‘Yes.’
