The Marriage Clause

by Alexx Andria

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  Her Dirty Little Secret

  by JC Harroway

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE FOUR-INCH HEEL of her hand-dyed shoe caught on a cable, one of a hundred that snaked over the bare concrete floor. She stumbled with a curse and a roll of her ankle that made her eyes water. Harley Jacob sucked in a breath, waiting for the pain to subside, and then frowned at the scuff in the leather—petrol-blue to perfectly match her cashmere dress, the signature piece from her fashion line’s autumn collection.

  She sighed, funnelling her frustration into determination, her mission here today more important than a hundred pairs of hand-dyed shoes. Careful to avoid further injury, she picked her way across the cavernous space, her hesitant steps avoiding the hazardous maze of plastic dustsheets, vicious-looking power tools and stacks of dusty building materials.

  Stupid jackass property developer.

  Whoever was at the helm of Demont Designs Architecture and Property Development not only had a packed schedule, but he’d suddenly stalled on their deal for her purchase of the Morris Building. A deal that was days away from completion. And he’d stalled without explanation.

  Harley headed towards a huddle of men at the far end of the room, swallowing down the humiliation of the hard hat and fluorescent vest combo—for someone with her eye for fashion, it represented the ultimate insult. She straightened her shoulders, mentally smoothing any wrinkle that dared to sully her immaculate, poised exterior and stepped around a nest of ducting pipes dangling from the ceiling like the building’s intestines spilling out.

  Her determination to close this deal increased with every step. Not because of the reputation of her family name, one of New York’s elite and synonymous with real-estate royalty, but because she’d literally sweat blood and tears to ensure her fashion label and her social enterprise business, Give, succeeded.

  And this deal was personal. She couldn’t fail again.

  As she approached the group of men, who were similarly attired to her in safety vests and protective gear, the whine of machinery and the constant staccato of hammering lessened slightly. Harley breathed a sigh. At least she’d be able to hear Mr Demont’s excuses. And hopefully his reassurances and apologies. He owed her a pair of hand-dyed shoes, but she’d take his signature on their contract in recompense.

  The group, perhaps hearing the clack of her heels, turned at once.

  Conversation stopped.

  A perfectly timed lull in the background hum of construction noise gave a moment of skin-crawling silence. Ten pairs of eyes landed on her, some curious, some surprised, some wide, no doubt taking in her inappropriate footwear and now cloying woollen dress.

  Harley lifted her chin. She hadn’t come here to plaster a wall or plumb in a bathroom. She wouldn’t be dismissed this time and she was well versed in holding her own in male-dominated environments.

  Like her siblings, she’d grown up working school holidays at the family firm. But where her brother and sister had filed documents and answered telephones, Harley’s dyslexia meant she’d been relegated to fetching coffee for her father’s executives and emptying the office trashcans.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Demont.’

  The group parted. The workmen closest to her stepped back, amused stares swivelling to the man at the centre of the group, who straightened from his stoop over an open laptop, his stare pinning her with twice the intensity of the bystanders’, their eyes now round with curiosity.

  ‘I’m Jack Demont.’

  The air whooshed out of her lungs and heat slammed through her body—instant spine-tingling awareness.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  Harley locked her knees, her fingers clutching the file in her hand.

  Jack?

  Jacques?

  Jacques Lane?

  Her disbelieving eyes scanned the man she’d come here to see, taking in the sexy, powerful, urbane demeanour he wore like an expensive suit. A man grown from a younger version she’d known, lusted after and once imagined herself in love with.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He showed no signs of recognition, but it was definitely him. The barest hint of a French accent—one that curled the toes inside her designer footwear. The same shade of azure-blue eyes, piercing her now as if she’d shrugged off the cashmere and stood before him naked. The scorching surge of hormones pounding through her bloodstream, clouding her reasons for seeking him out.

  His stare didn’t waver, but darkened. Annoyed by her stunned dithering or, like her, reeling from the frisson of sexual awareness snaking between them like the myriad cables on the floor?

  Harley pressed her thighs together, astonished by how quickly her own annoyance and frustration had morphed into burning arousal. Arousal for a man she no longer knew. A man from her past. A man who’d stalled their deal for no reason.

  Why was she here? She searched her scattered thoughts, mind clunking into gear. Yes...the Morris Building.

  His stare still burned into hers. Caught on the back foot, she jutted her chin forward, employing her haughtiest tone.

  ‘Could I trouble you for a moment of your time?’ Damn, even her vocal cords spasmed at the sight of grown-up Jack, her strangled voice emerging all breathy. She cleared her throat. Time to claw back the upper hand.

  If he wanted to pretend he didn’t recognise her and had no idea why she’d hunted him down, she could play along. So what if her erogenous zones lit up like sparks from a welder’s torch under his continued scrutiny? She refused to back down or slink away. And the fact they’d known each other—intimately nine years ago—was irrelevant.

  She’d forgotten they were there, but, as if sensing the tension thickening the air, the other men dropped their gazes to their steel-capped toes. Harley stepped forward, dropping her file and her purse on top of the blueprints on the table.

  If Jack Demont thought she’d be intimidated by this testosterone-charged environment, or the fact their families had parted on bad terms nine years ago, he’d clearly forgotten the reputation of her hard-ass, cut-throat father, a man who’d raised her with his own personal brand of subtle put-downs, constant reminders of her failings and barely concealed disappointed looks.

  With a twitch of his lips, Jack looked away, closing his laptop.

  ‘Gentlemen, excuse us. Any queries, speak to the foreman.’ The bite of his tone and the astute stare he levelled on her slammed her mission back to the forefront of Harley’s lust-addled mind.

  Mission. Contract. Signature.

  The group disbanded, dispersing one by one until all that separated her from the man who now went by another name was a heap of ancient history and the crackle of sexual tension that rent the air like the buzz of power tools.

  Her paper-thin confidence wavered, blurring the lines between past and present. Yes, for a few heady months she’d believed herself in love with teenaged Jack, back when the idea of love and naïve romantic ideals had ruled her head.

  But perhaps she was alone in this renewed violent surge of attraction. Perhaps he didn’t recognise her. Perhaps her ending their relationship had been insignificant to him then, easily forgotten the minute he’d returned to France with his family. And the subsequent heartache and guilt she’d felt on calling it off without explanation had been completely unnecessary.

  She used the stalemate stare down they had going to reacquaint herself with the object of all her teenaged fantasies on the perfect man. Of course, now she understood there was no such thing.

  Time had changed him, but for the better. His dark blond hair was shorter, the unruly flop of youth now cropped at the sides and back, still a little wild on top—a pla
ce to slide her fingers. His face, still handsome, had lost its boyish charm, his square, clean-shaven jaw was more pronounced and the cleft in his chin, which, from memory, perfectly fitted the tip of her index finger, was still prominent. How she’d love to test the scrape of his stubble against her skin. To kiss the curl of derision from his sexy mouth.

  But one thing was glaringly obvious—the boy of her childish recollections had left the building. This man before her, dressed in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned muscular forearms, and tailored pants, oozed testosterone from every pore. The scorch of his stare alone told her he was in charge. Power dripped from him, the proud breadth of his chest, the dominating height of his stature and the determined jut of his arrogant chin.

  Harley sucked in a breath.

  ‘I—’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Their words clashed.

  Their eyes clashed.

  Harley swallowed, her resolve solidifying despite the flare of lust drawing her back in time. Now she’d met the man on the other end of their broken deal, she wouldn’t leave without being heard out. She stood taller. She’d leave with his signature on the contract and they need never cross paths again.

  The animosity between the Lanes and the Jacobs gave her an edge—know your enemy. And this was her turf. Her dream at stake. And despite not quite fitting the mould, she was a Jacob.

  That Jacques Lane, or Jack Demont, now held that dream in the palm of his sexy, grown-up hands—hands she’d like to reintroduce to her traitorous body—provided an additional hurdle.

  But she’d learned harsh lessons from her father’s years of disapproval. Hardening herself to others’ expectations and battling, daily, the personal limitations of dyslexia had become her norm. It would take more than his brooding sexuality to trip her up.

  He continued to stare, his eyes sultry, as if they’d already peeled the layer of wool from her body. But still, he showed no hint of recognition.

  Harley faltered, her composure fleeing, replaced by the ingrained insecurities that hovered close to her polished surface. But his cluelessness could be to her advantage. Time to throw him off balance. Why should she be the only one floundering and ignorant?

  ‘You don’t remember me?’

  ‘Oh, I remember you, Harley.’ He grinned, a superficial mask that didn’t reach his eyes, which glittered with sparks as they traced her from head to toe. As if he’d plugged her into one of the sockets scattered about and attached her to the mains, his lazy perusal lit her up from the inside. And then his words registered and an all-over-body chill replaced the heat of moments ago.

  He’d known the identity of his purchaser and deliberately stalled the sale. What other explanation could there be? Was this delay tactic some sort of petty revenge for the bad blood between their families? Or just revenge against her?

  Harley jutted out one hip and fisted her hand there. If he’d stalled over some historical family feud...that was easily ironed out.

  ‘You do?’ She shifted her weight, her limbs liquefying under his molten stare.

  She expected his dismissal or anger. After all, she’d unceremoniously dumped him years ago. But she hadn’t expected the instant buzz of attraction or the urge to rip him out of his fine tailoring and see what havoc age and maturity had wreaked on his sublime-looking, rangy body.

  But the clenched muscles in his jaw told her he not only remembered her, he also recalled the bitter feud between their families.

  ‘Of course.’

  Heat of a different kind crept under Harley’s skin. She’d learned more than how to break someone’s heart that summer. She’d learned about the lies adults told, the deceit hidden in plain sight and the true value of her so-called love.

  Rearing back from memories of that time and her foolish infatuation with the boy Jack had been, she started when he stepped closer, encroaching on her personal space so she was forced to look up at him if she wanted to maintain eye contact. His heat burned into her, shunting her body temperature so high, she regretted the cashmere even more.

  ‘I remember you, just fine.’ His stare dipped to her mouth and she licked dry lips, an unconscious gesture.

  Why, despite the harshness of his expression, did his words slide over her like a caress from the finest silk? He’d barely spoken, but the husky drawl of his voice reverberated viciously between her legs.

  Just as it had at seventeen, her body reacted to him. But this time, she too was all grown up and her libido seemed to have multiplied exponentially in his potent presence.

  But she wavered, caught between the successful entrepreneur of today here to seal the promised deal and the smitten schoolgirl of yesterday—insecure, lonely even within her family and infatuated by Jack’s abundant confidence, his exotic accent and his cocky smile.

  No.

  She bit her lip, trying to dampen the licks of arousal coiling in her belly.

  Not her.

  Not him.

  The events of that ill-fated family holiday with Jack’s family had completely overwhelmed seventeen-year-old Harley, ripping apart everything she’d known to be true. In her confusion, fear and disillusionment, she’d abruptly broken things off with Jack, despite her rampant crush.

  So her libido now had designs on this man. But time hadn’t altered her opinions on relationships. And Jack would be the last man she’d ever consider had she any interest in changing that stance.

  As if in slow motion, he gripped the front of his safety vest, his stare lingering on hers, and he tugged, ripping apart the Velcro and exposing a crisp blue shirt, which lay open at the neck to reveal a glimpse of golden chest hair.

  Mmm...keep going...

  Where had that come from? She was here for their deal, her building. Her eyes darted back to his in time to see a flash of what looked suspiciously like triumph simmering there. Caught with her hand in the cookie jar and drool on her chin.

  ‘Did you just come to ogle me?’ He lifted a brow, stepping closer. ‘Or perhaps you like getting dirty.’ He glanced down.

  She followed his line of vision to the toes of her pumps, now covered with a layer of grey building dust.

  Conceited asshole.

  But the way he’d said dirty, his sensual accent wrapping around the word—she wanted to roll around in the sound, cover herself from head to toe and emerge completely filthy.

  She snapped back to reality when he tossed the vest onto the table and began rolling down his shirtsleeves, his amused eyes dancing over her hot face.

  ‘I came to get these contracts signed.’ Not indulge in fantasies of the sexual prowess he’d developed over the years. Prowess she’d been denied.

  ‘I have offices.’ He slipped his hands in the front pockets of his pants, tugging the fabric taut across his manhood. ‘Perhaps you should make an appointment to see me there. I think you’ll find the ambience more...forgiving to your wardrobe.’

  Arrogant, conceited asshole. And staring at his crotch...really?

  ‘I’ve tried on multiple occasions to see you at your offices, as I’m sure you know.’ Heat boiled through her veins.

  A shrug. A French tilt of his head.

  Her fingers twitched. She longed to angle that head for her kiss. Rile him up and dismantle the control he now wore like a second skin. Redress the power play on display.

  Harley lowered the pitch of her voice. It wouldn’t do to show him he’d affected her professional composure or her personal interest.

  ‘I’m here to discover why our deal stalled. And only days from completion?’ Not that she’d known the run-down commercial property she was in the process of acquiring had anything to do with Joe Lane’s son. Would she have walked away if she’d known? And had he really known Hal Jacob’s daughter was on the other end of the Morris deal? He’d yet to confirm her theory.

  ‘I
hope you’re not going to tell me you’ve applied the brakes because of some ancient family feud?’ One look at the chips of ice in his eyes told her the answer.

  ‘My lawyers advised me to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. You can never be too careful in business.’ A wry twist of his sexy mouth accompanied the minute narrowing of the stare he settled on her. ‘And they uncovered a mistake with the paperwork.’

  ‘A mistake?’

  No.

  Harley’s cashmere clung, her skin growing clammy. She’d checked and double, no, triple checked the forms before passing them to her lawyers. And she paid them fat bonuses to compensate for her...limitations. Limitations that had dogged her whole life.

  ‘So it has nothing to do with the fact I’m the purchaser? I, after all, haven’t changed my name.’ She stepped nearer, the subtle, manly scent of him warming the air between them and sending her head into a tailspin.

  The hard smile returned.

  ‘I admit, when I contacted the Give Foundation to discuss the misfiled documents, your name was...familiar. But I assure you, Ms Jacob, I have no ulterior motives. I’m a straight-up businessman—no agenda.’ A shrug. ‘What you see is what you get—delivered with a handshake, of course.’

  Harley leaned in, her feet welded to the spot. If he expected her to be intimidated, or even conciliatory, he’d chosen the wrong sparring partner. She was used to being one step behind, used to criticism. She usually came out snarling to compensate. Another Hal Jacob lesson...

  ‘I assure you, Mr Demont, as the purchaser, any...mistake is an oversight and easily rectified.’

  Please let it be easily rectified. If this deal collapsed, Hal would find out. Bad enough he was already fiercely opposed to this purchase. In fact he was opposed to all of his youngest daughter’s choices.

  ‘There’s no reason to delay. I’m watertight.’ She lifted her chin. Fake it ’til you make it.

  But inside the familiar icy sweats erupted. Her whole life, dyslexia had thwarted her every ambition, but this mistake carried ten times the impact. She wanted the Morris Building—perfect for her needs and in a prime location.