Claiming My Bride Of Convenience

It was a marriage in name only…

But now my wife wants more!

My terms were clear: a luxurious Greek island sanctuary in exchange for Daisy becoming Mrs. Matteo Dias. Until my convenient wife’s not-so-convenient arrival at a glittering charity ball—with a startling proposal of her own!

Her heart is set on creating a family, but love is something I can’t give. Yet Daisy’s spirit captivates me completely, and claiming our wedding night is a delicious pleasure… But am I able to become the husband Daisy truly wants?

After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District, with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories, she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

Also by Kate Hewitt

A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure

Inherited by Ferranti

Moretti’s Marriage Command

Demetriou Demands His Child

Engaged for Her Enemy’s Heir

The Innocent’s One-Night Surrender

Desert Prince’s Stolen Bride

Princess’s Nine-Month Secret

The Secret Kept from the Italian

Greek’s Baby of Redemption

Seduced by a Sheikh miniseries

The Secret Heir of Alazar

The Forced Bride of Alazar

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Claiming My Bride of Convenience

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08827-5

CLAIMING MY BRIDE OF CONVENIENCE

© 2019 Kate Hewitt

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

TINKLING LAUGHTER FLOATED from the open doors of the ballroom, along with the expensive clink of the finest crystal. The party was in full, elegant swing, and it made my stomach cramp and my heart race. Could I really do this?

Yes, I could. I had to, because the alternative was to scuttle back home to staid safety and more years—potentially many more years—of living in stasis, waiting and wondering.

Admittedly in this moment I was sorely tempted to flee from this luxurious hotel in the most sophisticated square of Athens, back to the safety of Amanos. But, no. I’d come too far, was hoping for too much, to run away like a frightened child. I was a woman, after all—a married woman. And after three years of marriage I was finally confronting my husband—but first I had to find him.

I straightened my shoulders, smoothing my hands down the sides of the gown I’d purchased that morning in one of Athens’s upscale boutiques. The sales assistants had exchanged laughing looks as I’d stammered through my request—I had plenty of money but little knowledge when it came to fashion or style, and they’d known, and had made sure I had known they’d known, as well.

Now I caught sight of my reflection in a gilt mirror in the hotel lobby and wondered if the tight ruby-red strapless gown was outrageous or elegant. Did it even suit me, with my brown hair, brown eyes? Miss Unremarkable, my husband once called me… Not that I blamed him for it. He’d wanted an unremarkable wife, someone who would make no splash, no demands, present no inconvenience, and that’s exactly what he got…for three years. But now I wanted something else, something different, and I’d come here to get it.

I took a shaky breath, willing my jelly-like legs to move forward. I could do this; I’d got this far, hadn’t I? I’d taken a ferry from the remote island paradise where I’d spent my entire married life, and then a taxi from Piraeus to Athens. I’d booked myself into this very hotel, fumbling with the credit card while the receptionist looked on witheringly, and I’d managed to buy myself a dress and shoes—sky-high stilettos that made me wobble when I walked, but still.

I’d managed it all—even if it had taken what felt like all my strength, all my courage. Life on Amanos was so much simpler, and it had been a long time since I’d been in the city, with all its traffic and rudeness and noise. A long time since I’d faced my husband—a man I barely knew.

Matteo Dias—one of the richest, most ruthless men in Europe, as well as one of its most notorious playboys. And I was his wife.

It seemed incredible even now, despite the papers I’d signed, the vows I’d spoken. I’d woken up every morning for the last three years on an island paradise, far from the hopeless slog of my former life in New York City, and practically had to pinch myself. Is this real?

Until it hadn’t felt like enough.

A flicker of apprehension rippled through me at the thought. Was I being unreasonable, greedy? Stupid? I had a lovely home, more money than I knew what to do with, and a fulfilling life—all of it more than I’d ever had growing up in Kentucky or during my brief, unfortunate stint in New York City. Could I really ask for more? Demand it, even?

Resolve hardened inside me and straightened my spine. Yes, I could. Because the alternative was to give up on the only real dream I’d ever had.

Now, as I scanned the crowded ballroom from its double doors, I wondered if I would even recognise my husband in the flesh. Of course I’d seen his photo in plenty of tabloids, almost always accompanied by some curvy blonde or other, usually simpering on his arm and poured into a dress.

I’d read all the speculation concerning his whispered-about marriage, with as many gossip columnists insisting no woman could have tamed him as those confirming the rumours were true, and Greece’s most eligible bachelor was in fact secretly wed.

Of course they were both right. Matteo was married, but I hadn’t tamed him. I haven’t even spoken to him. All I knew about my husband of three years was what I’d read in the tabloids—that he was ruthless in ambition, amazing in bed, and highly desired by almost all women.

I’d studied his dark, closely cropped hair, those cold steel-grey eyes, his impressive and dominating physique. I’d remembered how, for the brief moments we’d been together, it had felt as if he’d stolen the air from the room, how he’d just had to look at me and I’d forget to think.

I told myself that couldn’t happen now, because I very much needed to have all my wits about me. But first I needed to find him.

‘Miss, are you coming in?’ A waiter, with a white cloth draped over one black-clad arm and holding a tray of glasses of champagne, raised his eyebrows at me enquiringly.

I swallowed hard. ‘Yes,’ I said, pitching my voice to sound as firm and bright as I could. I was afraid I sounded a bit manic. ‘Yes, I am.’

With my shoulders thrown back and my chin tilted high, I stepped into the ballroom full of the cream of Europe’s society. Barely anyone spared me a glance, and I was hardly surprised. I was a nobody, plucked from a dive of a diner in New York—a waitress with no pedigree, no breeding, no style or standing. Miss Unremarkable indeed.

Even in a gown that had cost an eye-watering amount—Matteo has always been generous with his money, if nothing else—and shoes that had cost more than a month’s rent on my apartment once upon a time, I knew I looked the same. Dull-as-dishwater Daisy Campbell, born in the sticks of Kentucky, who hitched a ride to New York as a starry-eyed dreamer and soon wised up.

I moved through the crowds, keeping my chin up and my shoulders back with effort. Three years on a remote island hadn’t accustomed me to this kind of scrutiny. Back on Amanos I had learned how to be confident. I was sure of my place there, because I’d made it myself. But here…everything felt different. I felt different—more like the nervous country-mouse-in-the-city I’d once been. I had to fight against the urge to ask someone if they needed a refill.

I needed to find Matteo as soon as I could, before I melted into a puddle of nerves or broke an ankle in these wretched shoes.

I wasn’t under any illusion that he’d be thrilled to see me, but I was hoping he wouldn’t be too put out. We’d had an agreement, and I was breaking it. But three years is a long time, and surely he couldn’t have expected me to languish on Amanos for ever? Not that I was languishing, precisely, but I needed to move on with my life.

I’d given Matteo what he wanted. Now it was his turn to give me what I wanted.

‘Good luck with that,’ I muttered to myself, and someone turned to give me a hard stare.

I’d always had the slightly odd habit of talking to myself, and three years on a remote island hadn’t helped matters. I gave the stranger a sunny smile and forced myself to move on.

Where was my husband?

Then I saw him and wondered how I hadn’t before. He was in the centre of the room, the star of the show, standing half a head taller than any other man. My steps slowed and my heart started to beat hard. He was even more magnificent in the flesh than I remembered.

I stood there for a moment just watching him, because he was so beautiful. I didn’t want him to be, because I knew that his cold, hard beauty would distract and unsettle me, and in fact it already was. Matteo Dias was breathtaking—a dark and powerful knight in his tuxedo, the expensive material stretching over his broad shoulders and showcasing his long legs and impressive chest. Even from across the room, I could see how his grey eyes glinted like silver, and his mobile mouth captured my fascination as he spoke.

We’d never kissed, barely even touched, and yet in that moment I was spellbound, caught by his sheer animal magnetism and intense charisma, as if we shared a physical history. As if I could actually remember the way he felt and even tasted, when I knew I couldn’t.

I hadn’t let myself even imagine either of those things, because our marriage had never been like that. Matteo had been clear on that point right from the beginning, his lip curling in derision at the thought of so much as touching me—and I’d told myself I didn’t mind, because I didn’t want to be touched.

I took a deep breath and started forward. ‘Matteo.’

My voice came out more loudly than I’d meant it to, and several people turned. I heard whispers, titters, as their gazes raked over me. So the dress didn’t work, then. I’d suspected as much, but I didn’t care. Colour surged into my face but I kept my chin high, as I had all my life, no matter what it had thrown at me—and it had thrown a lot.

‘Matteo.’

He turned, his eyes narrowing to silver slits as his lush mouth compressed into a narrow, unforgiving line. Clearly he wasn’t pleased to see me. I wasn’t surprised, but stupidly I still managed to feel hurt, although I tried to hide it.

The woman by his side tilted her head towards him, her green cat’s eyes glinting with malicious laughter as she whispered in a voice loud enough to carry, ‘Oh, dear, Matteo, it looks like someone has a little crush on you.’

A crush? Hardly.

‘We need to talk,’ I told him, keeping my gaze focused on his now scowling face, refusing to be intimidated by the women who circled him as if they were a flock of elegant crows and he was their carrion. Except, of course, Matteo was all predator and no prey.

‘Talk…?’

He pretended to look puzzled, and I realised he was going to try to act as if he didn’t know me. The thought filled me with a sudden empowering fury. No way, sucker. Not after three whole years of doing what he’d said and staying out of his way.

‘Yes, talk, Matteo.’ I smiled sweetly even though inside I was trembling like a bowl full of jelly. ‘You do remember who I am, don’t you?’ I forced my smile wider as I started to say the dreaded word. ‘Your wi—’

‘Not here.’

His hand clamped down on my arm and he steered me out of the ballroom as if I were an unruly member of staff. I tripped in my heels and Matteo steadied me, although I could tell the gesture was one of expediency rather than concern. My husband wasn’t merely displeased to see me; he was furious.

That was made even more clear when he ushered me into a private room off the ballroom, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

‘Daisy,’ he said, his teeth gritted and his eyes flashing, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’

I almost hadn’t recognised her. Admittedly she was reassuringly easy to forget—which was why I’d married her in the first place. The only reason I remembered her name was because of the deposits I’d made into her bank account.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ she muttered, with a flash of spirit I hadn’t expected.

Hadn’t I married a mouse? A quiet, tame, unremarkable and invisible mouse, who was supposed to be grateful for what I’d done for her and stay entirely out of my way?

‘We had an agreement,’ I told her flatly.

‘To keep me prisoner on an island while you gallivant about all of Europe?’

‘What?’ I stared at her incredulously. ‘Is that seriously your version of events?’

‘We’re married, Matteo.’

My jaw dropped and I snapped it shut. I could not believe she was playing that card, when she of all people knew what our marriage really was. ‘You signed the agreement, Daisy. You cashed the cheques. You told me it suited you.’

Her jaw was thrust out, her expression mutinous. I’d never seen her look so fiery—but then, of course, I’d barely seen her at all, and as they say, out of sight, out of mind. Entirely.

‘I know I did, but it’s been three years and I want something different now.’

‘Oh, really?’

I folded my arms and stared her down. She had to be easy to intimidate. She certainly had been before—although in truth I hadn’t even had to try. I’d offered her a deal—a generous, considerate, honest business deal—and she’d accepted. Clearly she needed reminding of those facts now.

‘So you want something different and you decide to stalk me down to a public party—’

‘I did not stalk,’ she snapped, cutting across me, which no one ever did. ‘I read about the party online and decided to find you here.’

‘I call that stalking.’

‘Technically, I don’t think you can stalk your husband.’

‘Trust me, you can—especially in a marriage like ours.’

‘Which is exactly what I want to discuss.’

She gave me an acidly sweet smile as she walked across the room—or rather minced, because that dress was so ridiculous—to sit in a chair, looking as demure as I could ever hope for, even though her eyes still sparked.

‘What is that hideous dress you’re wearing?’ I asked, knowing I was being blunt to the point of rudeness and not caring in the slightest. ‘You look like a tube of lipstick—and a nasty shade at that.’

Her cheeks flushed but her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I thought those snarky assistants at the boutique might be setting me up.’

‘Couldn’t you tell it didn’t suit you?’ Although, awful as it was, it did suit her. My gaze was reluctantly and irresistibly drawn to the slender curves the outrageously tight dress clung to. ‘What is that material? Pleather?’

‘I don’t know.’ She glanced down at it without much interest. ‘They insisted it was the latest style, and who am I to know any different?’

‘They were lying to you.’

For some reason it annoyed me that a couple of nasty shop assistants would make a mockery of my wife. Our marriage most certainly wasn’t like that, but she was still a Dias. Even if no one knew it. Even if that was the way I’d wanted it.

‘I thought they might have been,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I’m hardly a fashion icon, and I’m sure I seemed like a complete country bumpkin to them.’

Which begged the question—‘What are you doing here, Daisy?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Don’t you mean what the hell am I doing here?’

‘I was surprised.’

I wasn’t normally in the habit of justifying myself, and I didn’t know what it was about her that caught me on the raw, made me defensive. That had to stop.

‘Annoyed, you mean? Or perhaps furious?’ One eyebrow arched as her golden-brown eyes glittered like bits of topaz. She was unremarkable, I told myself as I scanned her in cold assessment. Brown hair and eyes, a slight, unprepossessing figure. Completely forgettable.

So why did I keep staring at her?

‘We had an arrangement,’ I stated, yet again. She seemed to need the reminder.

‘Which suited you—’

‘And you—to the tune of nearly two million euros.’ I was not going to feel guilty. ‘You knew the score all along. You said you were happy with it.’

Her lower lip—a surprisingly lush and rosy-red lip—jutted out, and she folded her arms across her slight bosom, which for some reason I was having the most exasperating trouble looking away from, considering how unimpressive it was. B cup at best, and yet…

‘Well, now I want to change it,’ she said.

I let out a short, sharp laugh. ‘I don’t negotiate.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ she challenged. ‘It’s hardly a binding contract.’

I stared at her, shocked. Where was all this brazen confidence coming from? And what could she possibly want from me?

‘Not binding, no,’ I agreed silkily, ‘but you know the terms. If you wish the marriage to be annulled without my agreement, then you’ll have to hand back every single euro you’ve received from me over the last three years.’

Which amounted to nearly two million—one million to start, and then two hundred and fifty thousand for every year she stayed married to me, until my grandfather died. Then we wouldn’t have to have anything more to do with each other—something I had thought suited us both.

But of course Daisy knew the rules as well as I did. I’d outlined them all very clearly when I’d proposed to her after she’d been fired from a rundown dive of a diner in a less than salubrious neighbourhood in Manhattan and she’d accepted. With alacrity.

So what had changed?

I folded my arms and eyed her in consideration. She was sitting as prim as you please in a vamp’s red dress, looking entirely incongruous and making me feel as if I didn’t know her at all—which, of course, I didn’t. I didn’t need or want to know her. But I needed to know what she wanted.

‘What is this really about, Daisy?’

For a second that confidence faltered. Her lips trembled and her gaze slid away. ‘What do you think it’s about?’

‘Why are you here? What is it you want? Because I really don’t think you want to repay the two million euros I’ve already given you.’

‘One million, seven hundred and fifty thousand,’ she flashed back, recovering her spirit, assembling it like armour. ‘And, according to our agreement, we were to be married for a maximum of two years. It’s now been three.’

‘And you’ve been paid accordingly.’

And she’d spent it all, judging by the amount in the bank account I’d set up for her. Last time I checked, its balance was hovering just above zero. Heaven only knew what she spent the money on.

‘So what do you want?’ I shook my head slowly, my lip starting to curl. ‘More money?’

Her eyes widened, her lush lips parting. In that red dress she looked as ripe as an apple, ready to be plucked, and it disconcerted me. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in a drab waitress uniform, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her face shiny with grease from the fried food she served. Hardly someone I’d ever think of plucking.