The Bride Fonseca Needs

‘Nothing could induce me to do this.’

‘Nothing?’ Max asked silkily as he moved a little closer, his vision suddenly filled with the tantalising way Darcy filled out her dress.

She put out a hand. ‘Stop right there.’

Max stopped, but his blood was still leaping. He’d yet to meet a woman he couldn’t seduce. And was he prepared to seduce Darcy into agreement? His mind screamed caution, but his body screamed yes!

He erred on the side of caution.

Darcy’s hand was still out. ‘Don’t even think about it, Max. That kiss … whatever happened between us … was a mistake and won’t be happening again.’

He kept his mouth closed even as he wanted to negate what she’d said. He needed her acquiescence now.

‘Everyone has a price, Darcy. You can name yours. We only need to be married for as long as it takes the deal to be done—then we’ll divorce and you can get on with your life. No harm done. It’s just an extension of your job, and I’ll make sure that you get a job wherever you want in the world after this.’

Billionaire Brothers

One raised in luxury in Brazil, the other on the streets of Italy …

Luca Fonseca lives with the shame of his father’s unethical dealings and his own mistake of falling for a beautiful face. Now this cold-hearted Brazilian is determined to restore his family’s reputation—with or without his twin brother’s help.

Embittered Max Fonseca Roselli has shunned his heritage and his brother, and despite raising himself on the streets of Rome has carved out his own successful life. He, too, wants respectability—but he has a very different plan …

Two women will bring these brothers together—but is it enough to restore their brotherly bond?

Find out in: Fonseca’s Fury January 2015

The Bride Fonseca Needs June 2015

The Bride Fonseca Needs

Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film & TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon® with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or e-mail abbygreenauthor@gmail.com

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Billionaire Brothers

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘WELL, WELL, WELL. This is interesting. Little Darcy Lennox, in my office, looking for work.’

Darcy curbed the flash of irritation at the not entirely inaccurate reference to her being little and fought against the onslaught on her senses from being mere feet away from Maximiliano Fonseca Roselli, separated from him only by an impressive desk. But it was hard. Because he was quite simply as devastatingly gorgeous as he’d always been. More so now, because he was a man. Not the seventeen-year-old boy she remembered. Sex appeal flowed from him like an invisible but heady scent. It made Darcy absurdly aware that underneath all the layers of civility they were just animals.

He was half-Brazilian, half-Italian. Dark blond hair was still unruly and messy—long enough to proclaim that he didn’t really give a damn about anything, much less conforming. Although clearly along the way he’d given enough of a damn to become one of Europe’s youngest ‘billionaire entrepreneurs to watch’, according to a leading financial magazine.

Darcy could imagine how any number of women would be only too happy to watch his every sexy move. She did notice one new addition to his almost perfect features, though, and blurted out before she could stop herself, ‘You have a scar.’

It snaked from his left temple to his jaw in a jagged line and had the effect of making him even more mysterious and brooding.

The man under her close scrutiny arched one dark blond brow and drawled, ‘Your powers of observation are clearly in working order.’

Darcy flushed at being so caught out. Since when had she been gauche enough to refer to someone’s physical appearance? He had stood to greet her when she’d walked into his palatial office, situated in the centre of Rome, and she was still standing too, beginning to feel hot in her trouser suit, hot under the tawny green gaze that had captivated her the first time she’d ever seen him.

He folded his arms across his chest and her eye was drawn helplessly to where impressive muscles bunched against the fine material of his open-necked white shirt, sleeves rolled up. And even though he wore smart dark trousers he looked anything but civilised. That gaze was too knowing, too cynical, for politesse.

‘So, what’s a fellow alumna from Boissy le Château doing looking for work as a PA?’ Before she could answer he was adding, with the faintest of sneers to his tone, ‘I would have thought you’d be married into European aristrocracy by now, and producing a gaggle of heirs like every other girl in that anachronistic medieval institution.’

Pinned under that golden gaze, she regretted the moment she’d ever thought it might be a good idea to apply for the job advertised on a very select applications board. And she hated to think that a part of her had been curious to see Max Fonseca Roselli Fonseca again.

She replied, ‘I was only at Boissy for another year after you left...’ She faltered then, thinking of a lurid memory of Max beating another boy outside in the snow, and the bright stain of blood against the pristine white. She pushed it down. ‘My father was badly affected by the recession so I went back to England to finish my schooling.’

She didn’t think it worth mentioning that that schooling had taken place in a comprehensive school, which she would have chosen any day over the oppressive atmosphere of Boissy.

Max made a sound of faux commiseration. ‘So Darcy didn’t get to be the belle of the ball in Paris with all the other debutantes?’

She gritted her jaw at his reference to the exclusive annual Bal des Débutantes; she was no belle of any ball. She knew Max hadn’t had a good time at Boissy, but she hadn’t been one of his antagonists. Anything but. She cringed inwardly now when she recalled another vivid memory, from not long after he’d first arrived. Darcy had come upon two guys holding Max back, with another about to punch him in the belly. Without even thinking, she’d rushed into the fray, screaming, ‘Stop!’

Heat climbed inside her at the thought that he might remember that too.

‘No,’ she responded tightly. ‘I didn’t go to the ball in Paris. I sat my A levels and then got a degree in languages and business from London University, as you’ll see from my CV.’

Which was laid out on his desk.

This had been a huge mistake.

‘Look, I saw your name come up on the applications board—that you’re looking for a PA. I probably shouldn’t have come.’ Darcy reached down to where she’d put her briefcase by her feet and picked it up.

Max was frowning at her. ‘Do you want a job or not?’

Darcy felt tetchy with herself for having been so impetuous, and irritated with Max for being so bloody gorgeous and distracting. Still. So she said, more snippily than she’d intended, ‘Of course I want a job. I need a job.’

Max’s frown deepened. ‘Did your parents lose everything?’

She bristled at the implication that she was looking for work because her family wasn’t funding her any more. ‘No, thankfully my father was able to recover.’ And then she said tartly, ‘Believe it or not, I like to make my own living.’

Max made some kind of a dismissive sound, as if he didn’t quite believe her, and Darcy bit her lip in order to stay quiet. She couldn’t exactly blame him for his assumption, but unlike the other alumnae of their school she didn’t expect everything in life to be handed to her.

Those mesmerising eyes were looking at her far too closely now and Darcy became excruciatingly conscious of her dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, her diminutive stature and the unfashionably full figure she’d long ago given up any hope of minimising, choosing instead to work with what she had.

Max rapped out in Italian, ‘You’re fluent in Italian?’

Darcy blinked, but quickly replied in the same language. ‘Yes. My mother is from just outside Rome. I’ve been bilingual since I learnt how to talk and I’m also fluent in Spanish, German and French. And I have passable Chinese.’

He flicked a look at her CV and then looked back, switching to English again. ‘It says here that you’ve been in Brussels for the past five years—is that where you’re based?’

Darcy’s insides tightened at his direct question, as if warding off a blow. The truth was that she hadn’t really had a base since her parents had split up when she was eight and they’d sold off the family home. They’d shuttled her between schools and wherever they’d been living which had changed constantly, due to her father’s work and her mother’s subsequent relationships.

She’d learnt that the only constant she could depend on was herself and her ability to forge a successful career, cocooning her from the pillar-to-post feeling she hated so much and the vagaries of volatile relationships.

She answered Max. ‘I don’t have a base at the moment, so I’m free to go where the work is.’

Once again that incisive gaze was on her. Darcy hated the insecurity that crept up on her at the thought that he might be assessing how she’d turned out, judging her against the svelte supermodel types he was always photographed with. Beside them, at five foot two, Darcy would look like a baby elephant! In weak moments over the years she’d seen Max on the covers of gossip magazines and had picked them up to read the salacious content. And it had always been salacious.

When she’d read about his three-in-a-bed romp with two Russian models she’d flung the magazine into a trash can, disgusted with herself.

He suddenly stuck out his hand. ‘I’ll give you a two-week trial, starting tomorrow. Do you have accommodation sorted?’

Darcy blanched. He was offering her the job? Her head was still filled with lurid images of pouting blonde glamazons, crawling all over Max’s louche form. Reacting reflexively, she put out her hand to meet his and suddenly was engulfed in heat as his long fingers curled around hers.

He took his hand away abruptly and glanced at a fearsome-looking watch, then back to her, a little impatiently.

Darcy woke up. ‘Um...yes, I have somewhere to stay for a few days.’ She repressed a small grimace when she thought of the very basic hostel in one of Rome’s busier tourist districts.

Max nodded. ‘Good. If I keep you on then we’ll get you something more permanent.’

They looked at each other as Darcy’s mind boggled at the thought of working with him.

Then he said pointedly, ‘I have a meeting now, I’ll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. We’ll go through everything then.’

Darcy quickly picked up her briefcase and backed away. ‘Okay, then, tomorrow.’ She walked to the door and then turned around again. ‘You’re not just doing this because we know each other...?’

Max had his hands on his hips. He was beginning to look slightly impatient. ‘No, Darcy. That’s coincidental. You’re the most qualified person I’ve seen for the job, your references are impeccable, and after dealing with a slew of PAs—gay and straight—who all seem to think that seducing the boss is an unwritten requirement of the job it’ll be a relief to deal with someone who knows the boundaries.’

Darcy didn’t like the fact that it stung her somewhere very deep and secret to think that Max would dismiss her ability to seduce him so summarily, but before she could acknowledge how inappropriate that was she muttered something incoherent and left before she could make a complete ass of herself.

* * *

Max watched the space where the door had just closed, rendered uncharacteristically still for a moment. Darcy Lennox. Her name on his list of potential PAs had been a jolt out of the blue, as had the way her face had sprung back into his mind with vivid recollection as soon as he’d seen her name. He doubted he could pick many of his ex-classmates out of a police line-up, and Darcy hadn’t even been in his year.

But, as small and unassuming as she had been, and some four years behind him, she seemed to have made some kind of lingering impact. It wasn’t an altogether comfortable realisation for a man who regularly excised people from his life with little regret, whether they were lovers or business associates he was done with.

Her eyes were still seared into his mind—huge and blue, a startling contrast to that pale olive complexion, obviously inherited from her Italian mother.

Max cursed himself. Startling? He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier. He was running on fumes of exhaustion since returning from a trip to Brazil a couple of days ago, and quite frankly it would be a relief to have someone working for him who wouldn’t feel the need to see him as a challenge akin to scaling a sexual Everest.

Darcy Lennox exuded common sense and practicality. Dependability. The fact that she had also been in Boissy, even if her time had been cut short, meant that she knew her place and would never overstep the mark. Not like his last assistant, who had been waiting for him one morning, sitting in his chair, dressed only in one of his shirts.

He tried for a moment to conjure up a similar image featuring Darcy. but all he could see was her serious face and her smart, structured shirt and skirt, the tidy glossy hair. A sense of relief infused him. Finally an assistant who would not distract him from the deal of a lifetime. A deal that would set him up as a serious player in the very competitive world of global finance.

Quite frankly, this was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. Darcy would meld seamlessly into the background while performing her duties with skill and efficiency. Of that he had no doubt. Her CV was a glowing testament to her abilities.

He picked up the phone to speak to his temp and when she answered said curtly, ‘Send all the other applicants away, Miss Lennox is starting tomorrow.’

He didn’t even bother to reiterate the two-week trial caveat, so confident was he that he’d made the right decision.

Three months later

‘Darcy, get in here—now!’

Darcy rolled her eyes at the bellowed order and got up from behind her desk, smoothing down her skirt as she did so. When she walked into Max’s office and saw him pacing back and forth behind his desk she cursed the little jolt she always got in her solar plexus when she looked at him.

Virile, masculine energy crackled in the air around him. She put her uncomfortable reaction down to the fact that any being with a pulse would be incapable of not responding to his charisma.

He turned and locked that dark golden gaze onto her and snapped out, ‘Well? Don’t just stand there—come in.’

Darcy had learnt that the way to deal with Max Fonseca Roselli was to treat him like an arrogant thoroughbred stallion. With the utmost respect and caution and a healthy dollop of firm-handedness.

‘There is no need to shout,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m right outside your door.’

She came in and perched on the chair on the other side of his desk and looked at him, awaiting instruction. She had to admit that, while his manners could do with finessing, working for Max was the most exhilarating experience of her life. It was a challenge just to keep up with his quicksilver intellect, and she’d already learnt more from him than she had in all of her previous jobs combined.

Shortly after starting to work for him he’d installed her in a luxurious flat near the office at a ridiculously low rent. He’d waved her protests away, saying, ‘I don’t need to be worrying about you living in a bad area, and I will require you to be available to work out of hours sometimes, so it’s for my convenience as much as yours.’

That had shut Darcy up. He was putting her there so she was more accessible to him—not out of any sense of concern because she was on her own in a city she didn’t know as well as she might, considering her mother’s Italian background. Still, she couldn’t complain, and had enjoyed the chance to have a central base from which to explore Rome.

Max had been true to his word. She’d found herself working late plenty of evenings and on some Saturdays for half the day. His work ethic was intimidating, to say the least.

He rapped out now, ‘What was Montgomery’s response?’

Darcy didn’t have to consult her notes. ‘He wants you to meet him for dinner when he’s here with his wife next week.’

Max’s face hardened. ‘Damn him. I’d bet money that the wily old man is enjoying every moment of drawing this out for as long as possible.’

Watching his hands, splayed on his slim hips, Darcy found it hard to focus for a second, but she forced her gaze back up and had to acknowledge that this was unusual. Most people Max dealt with knew better than to refuse him what he wanted.

His mouth was tight as he spoke almost to himself. ‘Montgomery doesn’t think I’m suitable to take control of his hedge fund. I’m an unknown, I don’t come with a blue-blooded background, but worst of all, in his eyes, I’m not respectably married.’

No, you certainly are not, Darcy observed frigidly to herself, thinking of the recent weekend Max had spent in the Middle East, visiting his exotically beautiful lover, a high-profile supermodel. A little churlishly Darcy imagined them having lots of exotically beautiful babies together, with tawny eyes, dark hair and long legs.

‘Darcy.’

She flushed, caught out. Surely working with someone every day should inure you to his presence? Not make it worse?

‘It’s just dinner, Max, not a test,’ she pointed out calmly.

He paced back and forth, which threatened Darcy’s focus again, but she kept her eyeline resolutely up.

‘Of course it’s a test,’ he said now, irritably. ‘Why do you think he wants me to meet his wife?’

‘Maybe he just wants to get to know you better? After all, he’s potentially asking you to manage one of the oldest and most illustrious fortunes in Europe and his family’s legacy.’

Max snorted. ‘Montgomery will have already deemed me suitable or unsuitable—a man like that has nothing left to do in life except amuse himself and play people off each other like pawns.’

He raked a hand through unruly hair, a familiar gesture by now, and Darcy felt slightly breathless for a moment. And then, angry at her reaction to him, she said with not a little exasperation, ‘So take...’ She stopped for a moment, wondering how best to describe his mistress and settled for the most diplomatic option. ‘Take Noor to dinner and persuade Montgomery that you’re in a settled relationship.’

Max’s expression turned horrified. ‘Take Noor al-Fasari to dinner with Montgomery? Are you mad?’

Darcy frowned, and didn’t like the way something inside her jumped a little at seeing Max’s reaction to her suggestion. ‘Why not? She’s your lover, and she’s beautiful, accomplished—’

Max waved a hand, cutting Darcy off. ‘She’s spoilt, petulant, avaricious—and in any case she’s no longer my lover.’

Darcy had to battle to keep her face expressionless as this little bombshell hit. Evidently the papers hadn’t yet picked up on this nugget of information, and he certainly didn’t confide his innermost secrets to her.

She looked at Max as guilelessly as she could. ‘That’s a pity. She sounds positively delightful.’

He made that dismissive snorting sound again and said, with a distinct edge to his voice, ‘I choose my lovers for myriad reasons, Darcy, not one of which I’ve ever considered is because they’re delightful.’

No, he chose them because they were the most beautiful women in the world, and because he could have whoever he wanted.

For a moment Darcy couldn’t look away from Max’s gaze, caught by something inexplicable, and she felt heat start to climb up her body. And then his phone rang. She broke the intense, unsettling eye contact and stretched across to answer it, then pressed the ‘hold’ button.

‘It’s the Sultan of Al-Omar.’

Max reached for the phone. ‘I’ll take it.’

Darcy stood up with not a little sense of relief and walked out, aware of Max’s deep voice as he greeted his friend and one of his most important clients.

When she closed the door behind her she leaned back against it for a moment. What had that look been about? She’d caught Max staring at her a few times lately, with something unreadable in his expression, and each time it had made her silly pulse speed up.

She gritted her jaw as she sat down behind her desk and cursed herself for a fool if she thought for a second that Max ever looked at her with anything more than professional interest.

It wasn’t as if she even wanted him to look at her with anything more than professional interest. She was not about to jeopardise the best job of her career by mooning about after him like she had at school, when she’d been in the throes of a very embarrassing pubescent crush.

* * *

Max finished his call with his friend and stood up to look out of his office window, feeling restless. The window framed an impressive view of Rome’s ancient ruins—something that usually soothed him with its timelessness. But not right now.

Sultan Sadiq of Al-Omar was just one of Max’s very small inner circle of friends who had given up the heady days of being a bachelor to settle down. He’d broken off their conversation just now when his wife had come into his office with their toddler son, whom Max had heard gabbling happily in the background. Sadiq had confided just before that they were expecting baby number two in a few months, and happiness had been evident in his friend’s voice.

Max might have ribbed him before. But something about that almost tangible contentment and his absorption in his family had made him feel uncharacteristically hollow.

Memories of his brother’s recent wedding in Rio de Janeiro came back to him. He and his brother weren’t close. Not after a lifetime spent living apart—the legacy of warring parents who’d lived on different continents. But Max had gone to the wedding—more because of the shared business concerns he had with his brother than any great need to ‘connect’.

If he had ever had anything in common with his brother apart from blood it had been a very ingrained sense of cynicism. But that cynicism had all but disappeared from his brother’s eyes as he’d looked adoringly at his new wife.